Last night, he ate one of those meals. The meat was ground beef. The Loser's plan was to put it in spaghetti sauce but, tired after a day of work in which he did nothing, he opted for a simple hamburger.
Two slices of bread, an onion, oil on the little frying pan he'd had to wash dust of before using. The gas burner poofed on and the Loser washed his hands and began making a patty. He put the meat in the pan and it began to sizzle. It had been months since he'd done this and as it cooked, filling his tiny, cluttered, stale apartment with oily sounds and odors, he saw what he was doing in a different light.
A large animal, huge, had been propelled through alleys and ramps after standing in a lot eating for some months. Humans forced it into a large room where it was stunned, killed and slit opened. Its muscles where hacked off its skeleton and ground and mixed with other dead cows from other similar places.
Now the Loser stood in his apartment, applying heat to the ground, dead muscle, adding salt to it when cooked to make it taste the way he'd been raised to like such food.