Posts Tagged ‘Short Story’

The Pig

Posted: 30 August, 2010 in Blogging by GWT, Short Story
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Today, I met a pig.

A large pig, in fact. Maybe even a hog. He was large enough to be a hog at the least, though I don’t know if there’s a recognizable size where a pig ceases to be a hog.

But sure enough, as I stepped out my house this morning, a pig greeted me. A large pig who sat outside my door, staring as I stared back.

At first, I was taken aback. What was it doing there? Why a pig? Was this some sort of strange metaphor of sorts? Maybe it was a god in the form of a pig.

That was before the pig righted itself on two legs, sauntered inside my house, and took a seat on my couch.

“You don’t mind me sitting here, do ya son?
His voice rolled out in a strange, lazy southern drawl. Somehow I expected this, but at the same time a pig speaking is something that you never can prepare for.

So, of course I didn’t mind. In fact, I offered him a drink.

“Sure thing, good boy,” He replied. “A little thing of Jack and Coke, hold the coke. Do ya mind if I smoke?”

At the word smoke, he had already pulled out a comically large cigar and lighter. God only knows where he stored it, and I was quite content to not interrogate.  By the time I gave my approval, he had already lit the thing, spreading a haze of smoke as thick as london fog through the living room.

Navigating through this miasma to deliver the drink, the pig gave a cheery “Thank ya,” before motioning I sit down. Taking a long drag and expelling another cloud over his shoulder – do pigs have shoulders? – he gave me a long hard look, one a father would give to his son at his death bed or before a long speech.

“Listen here boy, this is about your destiny,”  Try to not laugh at the idea of a cigar smoking, whiskey drinking pig talking about destiny. “Things are coming, things that mean you ill will. You have to defend yourself, Charlie.”

…Charlie?

“My name is Liam,” I said slowly, trying not to breathe in the smoke. “Are you, uh, looking for Charlie Perez?”

“…Uh…”

“He’s next door, Mister…uh…pig.”
“…I see. Carry on then, boy. This didn’t just happen.”
And with that, he picks up, gives a little bow, and makes his way to the door. Looking back to me as I fan the smoke around me, the pig chews on the back of his cigar one last time.

“…Thanks for the whiskey. If you hear monsters next door in the next week, just move along your day.”

One last gout of smoke and the pig is gone. I scratch my head in confusion.

“Maybe I should stop hanging out with people
who read eldritch lore.”

“I stink.”

As sad as it may seem, that’s the only thing I can think of right now. I stink. I look and smell like some who should be working in a butcher shop. Its all raw meat and iron and I’m covering in this sticky red shit and I’ve got all kinds of cuts and bruises from all the stuff that happened over the last twenty-four hours. There’s a broken shotgun covered in teeth marks in my hand, and all I can think is “I stink.

I stink, and I don’t think a shower is going to make me feel clean.
Ugh. I think some of it is on my face too. Man, I wanna lick my lips, but I’d hate to swallow something nasty.

But that’s not the worst part. The worst part is that the sun is coming up. The sun is coming up and now I’m going to have to see all the shit I did in the dark exposed to the light.

Hoo boy, that’s not going to be fun.
I don’t really expect anyone to see this and understand what happened. No, its pretty nasty shit laying here in the dark, in this musky smelling warehouse with me. In fact, is it even a warehouse? This could be some abandoned ballet studio for all I know. Still a musky smelling location, to be sure, but someone out there would probably get pissed if I called a ballet studio an opera house.

Either way, this place is a derelict and I should write a letter to the city council instructing them to burn this god forsaken shit hole to the ground. I mean, I’ve got punctures in my shoulder from very rusty and very exposed nails here. That kind of bullshit wouldn’t be accepted in Somalia!

Oh. The fireball is nearly over the mountains.

And as it comes up, man, everything in this Warehouse-slash-Opera house reminds me of how seriously screwed up the world is today.

The red, oily stuff on me heats up, reminding me it isn’t blood and I’d like to get it the fuck off me as fast as I can. So, knowing that, I make my way towards the bathroom, of this place, kicking aside the headless stump of a body that happens to be lying in the way.

The walls are splattered with the red goo. Not just red goo, but there’s bits of stone scattered all around here and there too. Thats right, I didn’t think that guy’s head would come off so easily, but a shotgun can do wonderous things no matter how hard a person claims their skull to be.

It’s not until I get into the bathroom that I realize the water doesn’t work.
Abandoned building. Right. There’s no electricity, so why would there be running water? How stupid of me.
I bet my sisters at home wondering where I’m at. I really hate to do this, but I guess I’ll have to walk in the house looking like a horror movie villain. Maybe I should stash the gun somewhere first, though.

I really do feel like the bad guy here, though.

Sure, that guy was a douche. But maybe tricking him into coming here and gunning him down in cold blood was a dick move. I mean, I’m sure I could’ve come up with a better way to go about discussing how things with him and my sister were going and maybe, just maybe, I could’ve got him to leave the two of us alone.

On the other hand, the guy was a dick. I’m glad I shot his cranial contents all over the damn place.

“I stink.
“I wonder,” I can’t help but mutter as the red goo begins to burn my skin. “If we’ve still got that box of Lucky Charms at the house…”

[Hemoglobin – October]