Piggies: a rambling, folksy-type vignette

At sundown, the swineherds ambled good-naturedly from the muddy corrall to the abbattoir where the undocumented migrant workers would slaughter them by night. Randy bull-pigs, great lethargic sows and tender young piglets created a disjointed chorus of grunts, belches and snorting noises, accented by the reliable thump of the herder's lead pipe and the gasping shriek that would follow—indeed, a shriek of the sort only pigs can truly deliver. You know how it is with pigs; such stupid and feces-ridden creatures, yet so full of life and character, and probably the best of all the lower animals at a howlingly funny theatrical-type reaction.

So as they descended the formidable hill that overlooked the slaughterhouse, I mounted the hilltop and tossed after them a one-gallon gasoline can. The rusty metal container clattered happily down into their midst trailing a heavily volatile mixture of diesel fuel and rubbing alcohol in the opulent mat of drying leaves (this was November, you see, just about killing time for the Christmas hams and chops), and of course the pigs knew no better than to grunt in mild irritation and canter around the death-heavy vessel. Ah, the droll rhythym of metal mingled with the crunching of the leaves. After one final drag on one of the Black & Milds I'd stolen from Daddy's coat pocket, I flicked it out and down the hill, transfixed with the potential of the coming conflagration.

I like 'em toasty, God-damn you.