I am a pig. I mean a real squeaky, stubby-legged pig. I was being raised for pork at a farm. The crazy looking guy bought me from a farmhand. Bloody humans, always ready to sell out. Anyway, so here i am in the largest slum of the city, dodging the nasty kids with their sticks and knives and carrots and crackers. I don't understand why he had to buy me from the farmhand and leave me here. I had a few more months of blissful corn eating and sex. By the way pigs have half hour orgasms, betcha didn't know that. They used to call me Bertie, there was a sow in my pen, two months older still smoking hot. Life was good. I used to get to eat at least 8 times a day. Corn, maize, porridge,dead rats. What? Whatcha staring' at? We pigs are omnivores. We do eat meat.
People just don't understand us pigs. They think we're stupid. But we're one of the most intelligent life forms alive. People think we're shy and easily scared. Well ask people who have come across our wilder cousins. Us city pigs, yeah we never get much chance to be wild. That's the disadvantage of of domestication.
So this crazy man bought me for a wad of human currency(amazing stuff that, I'd like to know its working a little better).I wondered what he would do to me. I have heard about kinky people. Farmhands talk. So this guy started talking to himself as he was taking me home. lots of talk about death, frivolity of life and big names of dead philosophers(I guess). The upshot was "lets die".
Now I have seen pretty weird people and pretty weird things. Everyone has their addictions. The owner of my farm likes to eat a pig raw once in a while.Some people like to smoke that green stuff in their pipes. Some people like to snort the white powder. I've seen it all. But what if you could do it only once? Would it be called a addiction then? Are birds addicted to fly? What if you could snort the white powder only once and the urge to do it were as deeply embedded in you as flying in a bird ling? Would you snort it at once or would you like some foreplay first?
Whatever, my diagnosis was that the crazy man suffered from an addiction to death, his own death. Anybody could see it in his face. the way he crossed a busy street or the way he he handled an electric heater. It was as if he was trying to get hit or get baked. But he can't die at once. He wants people to understand the joy of dying as he himself does. Like smoking alone isn't much fun, its nice to have smoking buddies.
Crazy guy kept talking to himself, crying out for mum and dad. Crazy what family can do to you. Appears his dad keeps whispering in his ears from somewhere to kill people. I think that's bullshit. He wants somebody to understand what his dad taught him now that he, his dad himself is dead.
Bloody hell! Sigmund Fried or whatever must be turning in his grave by now. So this guy kept blabbering and putting a strap on my neck. Its still there and it itches like piggy hell. Then he came here and left me at the gates and stood there watching me go inside the slum being kicked around by unwashed kids in shabby and torn dresses.He had something in his hands with buttons in it.
I'm very very worried about these kids. They love to harass a helpless dumb creature like me, okay not so dumb after all. I think human people don't spend wads of their currency unless it buys them their poison or the foreplay for it. Killing people is this guy's foreplay. I have a really bad feeling about all this. I turn around, make for the gate, but a gaggle of teens has made a human wall in front of me, blocking the way. I am kind of small. That's why I got to stay out of the abattoir. I turn around again looking for some other exit, squealing with fright. Some little girls are trying to caress me and calm me down. That was sweet. I would have liked to spend some time with them. But now they will have to wait.
The grown ups have heard the commotion and are coming out of the huts and the road sides to see what the fuss is all about. Exclamations about the downfall of teen morals float around for a while. Mothers' doting calls to their boys to stop teasing a poor animal, without really meaning it. The boys have started a chant. They have started taking the chase seriously. They want to catch me, but they want to draw out the chase. They are running around and I am dodging them with an increased sense of urgency. My squeals draw peals of laughter from them. The atmosphere has gradually turned into that of a carnival. The grown ups are enjoying themselves. There has formed a sort of precession that drifts along very slowly away from the gate.
A grizzled, cynical looking man has been eyeing me from a distance. He is approaching me. He shoves a teenager aside so he is able to catch me with a minimal effort. He is fingering my strap. He is crying something to the crowd. Nobody hears him. He looks around with sudden fear. His gaze floats toward the gate and he freezes.
Then the explosion comes. Its not painful at all. The grizzled man is a splash of red on the floor and the walls of the hut. There are so many splashes its impossible to count. My headless body is lying a few feet away. One leg is missing. Nobody is having fun now. The dusk is enveloping the ground the red splashes becoming indistinguishable from the black shadows. People in the distance scream. I twitch.
I hope somebody tells my story. I am dead. I was The Pig.
- Piyush Tainguriya
Nov 3, 2009