I lived a comfortable life, playing in the mud that my mother told me was kept brown and putrid by countless generations of our swine ancestors both living and dying in this mud-hole I called ‘’home‘’. For as long as I can remember -and my memory isn’t very good because of all the Devil’s lettuce our Masters would feed us- life in this slime was quiet and still. You might think I’m going to tell you a barnyard story but let me tell you first that where I was situated was nowhere near a barn, or a farm, or in the freaking country side for that matter. No, I lived in the heart of That Glorious City, sucking in that sickening air that pumped out of those mud-producing factories. Lined along those factories were billboards with pictures of people (or animals?) like me swimming in the latest chocolate mud puddle as strobe lights flashed away their stillness.
‘’Looks like rain’’ a rather Fat Boar choked out as he squashed a small chick with one of his three hoofs. The boar continued, ‘’I don’t know how we differentiate the sky from the mud. At times I feel like I’m walking on the wrong side of the world, the sky is so dark.’’
‘’And yet not an ounce of rain pities us enough to fall on the bark (of a tree) we call our hide. Said the Fat Boar’s friend; fat Boar Slim. I’m sick of this hardening mud. ‘’
Sick eh? Who isn’t? But this wasn't the only thing that was eating all of us hoofed creatures, it was where this mud came from and why was it so good. This question would form in a thousand ways and vary from generation to generation. “It’s the disposal of the Gods’’ said one very wise Hogcrates –a distant relative. While another wiser-than-thou (a.k.a. Charles Darswine) stated: ‘’this mire was once a tiny dot smaller than the one on the end of this sentence. And it got so sick of itself, it decided to blow up and soak us all with its morass.’’ And then of course there were the countless wars on who had the best and darkest mud and why the dark mud was cooler in the first place. And so on, and so on. (And who could forget the Boar Lord Adolph Pigler as he roared out the words that lead to so much bacon (bloodshed): ‘’Anyone who doesn’t have a spiral for a tail, or doesn’t know how to put his hoof up like this, or anyone who makes me look short and stout, will be fried and served for breakfast by a good portion of scrambled eggs’’)
Ok, enough already!! Now pressing on to more present matters: Me; I was a part of nothing. I had no job and my mother was going blind and deaf. My 19 siblings and I had just moved into a quieter part of town. The only reason why we did that, was so we could hear our mother’s ‘’oinks’’ over the gloppy commotion of downtown. On one particular day-two days ago, my mother oink’d about something or somethings I thought I would never see.
‘’And Woe to the owners of the mud factories! Of all the things I have seen in my filthy life never have I seen a more beautiful sight as that of the Dark Nobles who prey the very streets of our lives, and yet are never seen. I have seen only one, the very one who has taken your father and -so I heard- put an apple in his mouth. They do not have names. None known to us, I presume. But they do not need names; for their beauty radiates in such originality that a measly name would not suffice. They stand tall, overpowering, and vicious. But is it not they you must fear, fear their machines. Fear...the…machines…’’
Those were the last words of my mother; Solemn, paranoid, and pitiful. The way a true swine should go. As these words still buzzed around in my mind; pestering me like a fly that fell in love with landing on your ear at six o’clock Sunday morning. I made my long way back downtown. Machines? What the douche?? I mean, there always was a horrible humming sound that came from the factories, and yes I did know they were big ass machines, or some other mechanical whatnot that have names only engineers remember. But why care? And what feeds these monsters? But more importantly who –or what- were these beings so beautiful they didn’t require names?
As these and many other thoughts (ones I shouldn’t speak of because of the nature this story would have, should I spout out on how juicy my ex’s bacon ass was back in the day) festered my oily brain, I didn’t notice that I wasn’t the only one bouncing down this quiet road. But then I did! I heard one sound, just one: One hard stomp, or plod, depending if you were a lard tub like the rest of us, on the mud right behind me. Then everything went black and comfortable.
When I woke up I was on a tray with garnish of silver and gold apples, leafs, and flowers. My head hurt. At first I thought “heaven?’’ but no, I was feeling too shitty for this to be it. I looked around and saw that I was in a mud-free place. Astonished, I looked on and noticed that I was beside a fire place but with no fire. Then, something on top of me moved.
“AAAAAAAAAAAGH!! Get it off! Get it off! Get it off!” But neither I, nor it, budged. So slowly (for the pleasure of the reader) I turned my head. I was praying to any and all pagan Gods; that it wasn’t my mother sitting on me. Well, it wasn’t. (Thank God). She, He, or It was that was sitting on me was… how did my mother put it? BEAUTIFUL!! Beyond words and oinks and moans from the shop with the red light. What would this creature of terror and wonder want from a pig like me?
