The Head Cheese and The Totally Absurd Theory of Revolution.
Once upon a time and in a land that time forgot there were four little pigs. This is not the beginning of their story but a rough account of their end. All the little porkers had enjoyed a long period of blissful prosperity, but we enter their world in a dim and shady era of economic decline… so this is a sad and sorrowful tale.
The dusky, smog-ridden veil of late autumn hung like a shroud over the tiny town of Twirlestun. We walked across cobbled lanes, brushed past the rusty-soot black walls of decaying homes, and in the distance saw the spindled creepy branches of dying forest. Our eyes were stung by icy shards of rain; an incoming storm. Yet still, the old sow-town bustled with activity… more out of necessity than joyful purpose.
An emaciated swine thrust her trotter up into the sky… “you see that, you see that, do you know what that there is?” I looked up in the direction of the old pig’s pointing and saw a black spot just above a grey cloud. “No” I replied, “What is that then?” The pig became agitated and blurted out; “Bad omen… bad, bad omen.” In a depressed tone she continued; “That thing is chaos brooding, brooding on the verge of anarchy, waiting to consume us all, we’re all waiting on the verge of disorder… it’s a nasty black hole getting bigger and bigger every day… you know it is going to blot out the sky and then swallow up everything we regard as civilization.” Her hysterical tone gave me ample reason for doubt and I suggested she take herself to the town psychiatrist for help. At that point she gave a rather manic laugh, a noticeable ‘huff and puff’ and ran off toward the yellowish river. I heard a splash and plop but continued on my way to discover the lives and fate of the four little pigs.
The first little pig had the pallor of a ghost. Gone were the rosy cheeks and rumpy disposition of a fairy tale farm animal. Little pig #1 had gotten a cancerous brain tumor but lacked the necessary medical insurance to be treated and cured. He swayed like a drunken fool and slurred his speech to a nonsensical level. Still he took some time to groom his appearance to an acceptable standard, slowly shaved the hairs on his chinny, chin, chin, and carefully pinned on his combat veterans honor medal. Then he set out for the High Street; everyday he was to be seen begging on the street corner, trying to get enough money together to buy a grave plot. Nine times out of ten he had to deal with slanderous squeals of ‘fake’ or ‘phony,’ but he put on a brave face. Through sheer luck or fortune he found himself a little better off toward the day’s end. Yet here’s the rub: for as much as he gained, he lost on the way home in the evening… for he had a sizeable hole in his trouser pocket. At least his wife was waiting for him on the doorstep… with a heavy slap for stupidity and a second slap for forgetting to sew up his pockets.
The second little pig lived a bit further up near the river.
Unfinished - the end.
All Rights Reserved David John Drew 2011
