The Dog had always hated pork.
Why the fuck would you eat the meat of something that rolled around in its own shit and mud all day?
Momma used the say the world had grown dirty, she’d say. She’d gotten dirty, too, and had The Dog – that’s why his pa’ wasn’t around.
He wasn’t even sure she had named him Dogwood. Might’ve just been ‘Dog.’ Might’ve just been, ‘Like a fuckin’ dog.’ Only the Social Security office knew.
A sharp squeal ejaculated his mind from the sweetness of memory lane… and back into the present.
Splayed on a platter; presented as a gourmet gift for his gastrically distended guest.
It was then he realized how heavy he felt… or was heavy the wrong word?
He felt like a nail, hammered into its place. Like a damn dothead in a caste system, even. Couldn’t go up, down, or sideways. Fixed into existence.
The cow worshippers were almost as bad as the pigs, in his opinion – with their mangirl gods and their million ways to fuck. It took all the flavor out of life… plotting and planning. Why not just get down to screwing instead of screwing with some stupid book? Why not just live in the raunchy, dirty, cesspool of day to day life in its delicious chaos?
A fly tenderly licked his earlobe, promising sweet, licentious things if he behaved.
Just for a little while, baby; sssshhh.
Just let them eat you up and everything goes away.
Dogwood noted that the Pig’s porcine lips had curled into a faltering smile. It reminded him of a sickly baby; born to die.
He could see him struggling to keep its flickering life going. But it was too unnatural for the pig. In the Dog’s experience, swine never smiled. They didn’t have many emotions – they were enslaved by hunger. Constantly under the duress of a belly that was never full of slop.
Through the thick fog of his thoughts, Dogwood remembered that potbelly pigs would actually eat themselves to death.
He shuddered, disoriented eyes drunkenly scaling the Pig from leathery hoof to snout. The smile had thrown in the towel and gone to seek more respectable company. Like a hooker, or dental floss.
The Dog leaned forward in a quick jerk, which caused his head to gain about 15lbs abruptly.
His forehead collided with an unforgiving porcelain surface, drawing forth a sharp crack, like lightning.
“Yuh… vvvv UUUUUGY teeeeeeeeef,” he said.
The Pig breathed out a long, heavy squeal of a sigh. Then it took a clipboard and a pencil and jotted down something. Dogwood figured it was a note to make sure they put an apple in his mouth next time.
The irony of it made him gurgle a laugh – ropes of spittle and phlegm pooled around his mouth on the desk.
It was a desk, wasn’t it?
He looked up at the Pig again, watching it squeal and huff in outrage. Greasy, pink cheeks wobbled like a corpulent woman’s ass.
He knew it would call for its attendants soon. Someone had to fix the platter, make it presentable. Someone had to keep the meal from getting up and biting back.
Dogwood lurched from the chair (it was a chair, wasn’t it?). The nail ripping itself free.
The Pig screamed at an earsplitting pitch, urgently excusing itself as it rolled backwards in its chair.
Dogwood lumbered towards the Pig… watching its eyes. He’d never seen a pig with blue eyes.
With a snarl, he launched himself at it – his hands outstretched, reaching for its pork rind destined flesh.
The fly bit his ear. They won’t let us play now, Doggy.
The Pig screamed when Dogwood clamped his jaws on its jiggly neck, his hips rocking in righteous fury against rotund belly.
A chorus of screams filled the dining room.
Someone hit him between the shoulder blades with a brick. Probably one of the chefs. He laughed. The pigs blood would get their whites stained.
Can’t wash out blood, bitch. Ask a carpet cleaner.
A vicious little mosquito planted itself into his neck.
Molten hot copper flooded his mouth.
The Pig screamed and screamed.
Just before someone smashed his lightbulb, Dogwood decided he liked the taste of pork after all.
This week’s Garage Fiction prompt was provided by Dogwood Daniels…
The Battle of Chamdo by Gorguts
These weekly scenes & stories are part of an ongoing project codenamed “Garage Fiction”. Since January 2015, three writers (Nicholas Brack, Dogwood Daniels and Jinn Zhong) have committed to writing a flash fiction or scene each and every week. We post on Fridays and dissect on Mondays via podcast. Listen to the episode here:
Listen to the podcast in the player above, or subscribe via iTunes, GooglePlay or Stitcher. What the heck is “Garage Fiction”? Since January 2015, a small group of storytellers committed to writing a piece of fiction every week… and then getting on a podcast to talk about it.