Sixty-seven inches squared. Cage so barren, life's impaired. Four hundred million times per year: caged, crowded, caught between the gears of the machine. This is routine, all in the name of profit. It's senseless, relentless; it’s endless misery. The bottom line is costing lives. This appetite's obscene. A life spent in torment; a killer economy. Envision a prison. Bodies: commodities. Brothers smothered for commerce; it’s perverse. A foundation built on egg shells—a time bomb is ticking—can't bear the weight of the public eye. The charges are sticking. We can send this monster back to hell—this market's our target—just interrupt the demand or supply.