Winding in from every corner of the enormous facility is a conveyor line that converges here, in the central chamber. Babies of all species, varying in color and somewhat in size all come down the line the same, and the belt terminates at Slate's urethra.

Two per second is the strict quota, and production often reaches three at peak birthing hours. The conveyor is packed tight with small, innocent bodies. Smooth, high walls ensure there's no escape for the infants as they're shunted along.

No matter how they might flail or squirm or cry, the cacophony of mechanical noise the babies are born into never ceases until they're poured into the boiling cauldron of Slate's balls.

GURRRGGLE GLORP SLOSH CHURRRRN

And to Slate, there's no greater pleasure than the feeling of the countless infants being smelted down inside. Their soft, squishy flesh is reduced to white, sticky nut sludge, and their bones are left to collect by the million inside. It's an ecstasy beyond words, and though his ball snacks may disagree, as far as he's concerned, it's worth every young life mulched down to feed him.