Savage Slim Jim: A Review

On the night of March 18, 2022, at approximately 8PM I purchased a Savage Slim Jim from the CVS Pharmacy on 344 W Hubbard St in Chicago, Illinois. After tax, it cost me $3.68. As opposed to your typical meat snack, Savage Slim Jim are most identifiable by their girth: they are 3x larger than a normal “giant” Slim Jim, which sits at .97oz, while the Savage variety is 3.0oz. Eagerly, I made my way home.

Upon returning to my apartment I set the meat stick on my counter and immediately chewed an antacid tablet, followed by approximately two ounces of $8 “LUX” brand vodka I also purchased from the same CVS Pharmacy. I lit a “passion punch” scented candle and held the Savage Slim Jim in my hands for a moment. At first glance, it’s no wonder how it might seem off-putting: to have something edible resemble a packaged, lab-grown dog genital is just insane. But it is taut. Weighty. It commands some demented form of respect. It is composed of organic matter but, of where and when? To hold a Savage Slim Jim in your hands and know the intricacies of such a thing evokes a twisted feeling of power. Could I beat someone to death with it? Perhaps. Do I want to try? More than anything.

Peeling the wrapper apart, I noticed a sort of film that coats the plastic. The oils and fats that have leaked from the mechanically-separated meats, my first guess. Technically, it could be anything. It could be the Essence eau Savagé. The secret ingredient. The Savageness. Whatever it is, it’s simply the proverbial foreplay; the calm before the storm. Before the First Taste.

With hesitation, I put the shaft to my lips and am instantly assaulted by a peppery, pungent aroma. Wincing, I push a soft corner of the meat snack through my lips and open my quivering jaw, prepping for first bite. Plunging down, there is distinct snap as teeth puncture the casing, rocketing me back to the earliest variations of human. I am a hundred thousand years too early, tearing into the body of a fresh kill. I am unable to explain the machinations of the world around myself besides a few basic, primal emotions and fear-based psychological compulsions. Around every corner there is something that wants to kill me. I’m overwhelmed with paranoia. My toilet. My pillows. My air conditioner. What are they, really? Can I trust them? Neurons fire to populate my mind but instantly disappear as I lack the language to define my own reality. The Savage nature of the meat snack forces me to grunt and jeer at the complicated, shiny intruders in my home. I know nothing of them anymore.

As I continued to chew through paste-like, spiced filling, my mouth instantly flooded with saliva and enzymes eager to break down the intruder like white blood cells attacking an infection. The point of no return. There is no turning back now, as I begin to accept the Savage Slim Jim and all of its multitudes inside of me.

I slump into the southeast corner of my darkened apartment. There are only red eyes watching me: the single indicators of a dozen electronic devices being denied power. The flame of the passion fruit candle begins to bleed, stretching and distorting as if being molded into some awful parody of itself. The painful throbbing of reality begins to distort my understanding of my own being. I have no grasp, no foothold to hold onto. It is as if my soul has been ripped from my body and it is being held hostage in front of me. There are waves of blackness and grey that ebb into the corners of my vision. I only have one thought. One unrelenting, identifiable thought.

Kill yourself. Toss your body off of the building and succumb to the only remaining forces of the universe you trust— that are still reliable and knowable. Gravity, velocity— they can end this.

But I cannot. I will not. I push past these interruptions. I begin to regain control. The lights of the city that scream through the windows of my apartment bend. I hear a door slam from across the hall but it is as if it’s an inch away from me. It is clear within seconds that I am experiencing some sort of Savage-led vision.

I move my hand but it does not follow. I’ve become detached— detached from this plane of existence. I see the moon through the window— or some object that would challenge it— hanging high in the clear night sky. It pulsates rings that fade after what could be thousands of miles or mere centimeters. There is a ringing. A bell tolling. Auditory hallucinations. An infant crying devolves into the laugh of a hyena. A car horn cackles at me.

There is a voice.

“Andrew.”

My eyes flutter, struggling for light to identify the source of the voice; it is commanding, powerful. “Who— Who? Slim? Mr. Jim?”

“Andrew.”

I writhe on my floor, unable to locate the source of the voice. I reach out, or try to— there is nothing, no one. I am alone.

“Andrew.” The voice is louder. Closer. Everywhere.

“Show yourself!” I scream into the darkness, tears filling my eyes.

There is a sudden, blinding burst of light from the windowsill. For a brief moment I feel human again. I feel whole. There is a form. A figure of pure energy and answers. I’m bathed in peace. I shudder at it, hands trembling as I hold onto the Savage Slim Jim, my tether to this moment.

“It is I.” The phrase echoes in my head as a thousand different voices. “The Lord God.”

“Oh. Bye.”

“Wai-“

I crawl into my adjoining bedroom and slam the door, grasping the remaining Savage Slim Jim, reveling in the darkness. The light emanating from the living room holds for few more moments before disappearing in a whimper.

I shove the remaining snack into my mouth, groaning with pleasure, throwing my head back. I chew and chew and swallow and swallow, working the wrapper between my fingers. I need it all. I want to feel it inside of me. There is a pale, brief light: headlights, turning corners in the parking garage across the street. I glance down. I am fully nude.

I lay my back against the floor at the foot of my bed. I breathe deep and can see my breath upon exhale. Inside me, there is a universe. It is blazing. It is freezing. It is alive or it will be. I need it to be.

I place my hands on my stomach and press deeply, kneading into my skin. Waiting. I begin to pray to the god I’ve just abandoned. Nothing. Hours. Seconds. Eternity. More nothing.

Until, finally, a kick. I am jolted to my knees, scrambling for another sign.

I cradle my arms around my midsection, pleading. “Please. Please.”

Tiny flutters.

I feel a smile creep across my face. For the first time in my pallid, meager existence, I am okay. There is nothing left to hurt me. There is nothing left to work through. There is no more pain. There is nothing left to do. I quietly sob to myself, blind to the world around me, the residual spice working its way up my esophagus: first breaths.

“Savage.” I whisper, nodding frantically, “My little Savage.”