# Long Pig Stew (Warning: Language)



## Fritz_Vetter (Apr 4, 2011)

*Long-Pig Stew*​ *"*_[FONT=&quot]Cornered long-pig at the edge of the corral
Ascending heart rate makes for succulent portions"[/FONT]_​ *Cattle Decapitation, Long-Pig Chef and the Hairless Goat*​ _Intro_​    It was a frigid evening when old Harold's water heater went to hell. It was 43 degrees according to the white-specked thermometer hanging from the birdfeeder. Harold shivered beneath the covers, silently cursing himself for not repairing that blasted thing properly the first time it took a shit.

_1_​    He had spent the whole day in the south-eastern plantation, right on the border of Merrimack County. "Field Manager" was his formal title, although the seven Mexican’s he employed for eight months out of the year knew him affectionately as _culo gordo loco_, or crazy fat ass.
            The work day had begun just like any other, Harold fired up the 1987 conversion van at approximately 4:45 a.m. The comforting rumble soothed him as the rickety rust bucket ambled along the twisting back roads just on the outskirts of Felchgore. Ten minutes later he pulled into the first driveway of Sunray Trailer Park and waited impatiently for his crew. 
  "Frackin’ Mexicans," he muttered aloud. 
                  As if his utterance was a means to summon them, the side door slid open and the first of seven relatives jumped in and slid into the far back seat. The age variance was from fourteen to forty-five.  The rest of them followed suit until the van itself resembled something more like  a tin of sardines that had perhaps been left in the pantry a bit too long. 
            Juan, eldest of the bunch and one of the few who spoke a lick of English, greeted Harold in customary fashion. 
            "Morneen boss," he chimed cheerfully.
            Harold replied with a grunt before throwing the beast into gear and pumping the gas pedal. Finally they were on their way to the field, on their way to a twelve hour day of mild manual labor and easy conversation.
_2_​              They arrived at the south-eastern plantation around 5:30 a.m., the sun just beginning to graze the peaceful countryside, casting light on the infinite rows of baby pines and balsam firs. Christmas trees was the business. It was an honest living and frankly the only job the balding old man had ever known, three generations of Buckham's preceded him, supplying the ornamental standard of the holiday to a large portion of the sleepy mid-west for nearly a century. There was a certain degree of pride in knowing that his service was the premier supplier of Christmas trees in the area. Harold took pleasure in the idea that thousands of young children would excitedly unwrap their presents underneath the finely manicured tendrils of his own handiwork, inhuming the distinctive scent of pine as they tore ferociously at colorful wrapping paper. He chuckled to himself at that thought.
                  "Let's go boys! Grab your shit! Let's get mooooooving!," the old man blurted. He was a little tough with the crew sometimes, but he felt justified in that as the work was usually fairly easygoing. He also shelled out an extra thirty-five cents an hour more than his competition, so he did his best to get every penny's worth.
            The herd filed out as quickly as they had loaded themselves and stood in a C-shaped formation behind the van. Harold opened the rear door and began distributing their work tools; one blunt tipped machete sheathed in thick yellow canvas and a four and a half foot long extended trimming shears, for nipping the tip.
            He led the group along a lumpy trail, stopping every ten to fifteen rows to assign sections. He'd point to one of them and say, "You, there," according to their general ability and overall speed until everyone was dispersed.
            Upon completion, his delegates merrily chopping away at their respective sections, Harold found the time to have a short rest on an appropriately located stump. A Camel non-filter dangling loosely from his bottom lip, he exhaled slowly out his nose with a satisfied sigh. The day had begun.
            The scene was serene, the morning sun casting golden yellow rays of illumination across endless rows of soft needled balsams. Dew glistened on an itch weed. A distant bird chirped.
            Beneath the heavenly veil of the oncoming day loomed something more sinister, a malevolent presence that hummed with a subtly that was unperceivable by an ear that wasn't listening for it, undetectable to a mind that was absorbed with more mundane meanderings. It was when Harold stood up, taking the final puff of what remained of his stack before dropping it to his feet, giving the smoldering stub a violent stomp and grind into the dirt, that he was made painfully aware of that low decibel drone. 

_3_​              Wasps.
            Not the normal yellow jacketed semi-tame wasps of suburbia, but the considerably larger and more ominous black bodied wasps that build their nests below the surface of the earth.
            "_Fuck! Shit! Goddamn MOTHERFUCKER! Sumna-bitch cocksuckers...!" _
  The list of obscenities ran on as Harold withdrew his machete and began wildly chopping at the air about his body, bearing a likeness to a desperate crashing helicopter in mid-descent.
            "_You little cunt motherfucking bitches! GET THE FUCK OFF MEEEEE!,_" he exclaimed as he was endlessly poked and prodded by countless venomous lances, each subsequent sting provoking a jerk in one direction and a curse in the next.
  Harold was in trouble, and he damn well knew it. He had always been so careful and conscientious about disturbing a nest, as he had been most definitely stung a few dozen times by these little bastards through his time in this profession. For whatever ungodly reason, he had let his guard down for one measly fucking cigarette and look what happened.
            "_Aaaaaaaaaah! Sumna-bitch whoreson rotten fucks!," _he yiped again as a few of them got underneath this t-shirt. He nearly knocked the wind out of himself beating at his torso, surely embedding a stinger or two in his ruffled belly in the process.
  Unbeknownst to Harold, he was slowly working a path away from the nest, something that escaped him in his frenzied struggle. The cloud of whirring micro-assassins was slowly dissipating, as many of them began to fly back to the nest. Harold knew that these alien creatures communicated through chemical signals, and when one gave the stop sign, the rest eventually followed suit.

            Harold was by now a good twenty feet from where this catastrophe began and he started come back to his senses.
            There were a few stragglers buzzing here and there, but by that time they had ceased their attack and only lingered as a warning. _Mission complete soldiers, job well done! _He could imagine their wordless conversations.
            When the old man finally got a hold of himself, still swaggering a bit, he managed a trembling hand to his breast pocket. He withdrew a broken Camel and tore off the end, flicked a match and puffed with determination. "Goddamn sumna-bitches..." he whiffed, trailing off into an assortment of grunts and groans.
            They really got him good this time boy 'o, them dirty cunts. He'd figured he had been stung at least a hundred times. He was a bit light headed and he could feel the galloping pulse of his heart in his swelling frame. They'd mostly gotten the bare flesh of his neck and arms, but he also maintained at least twenty or so stings on his belly and back. Thankfully they avoided his open fly, which he just now noticed was catching a breeze.
            Old Harry wanted badly to have himself a sit down right then and there, but something in his guts told him he had better get to that first-aid kit in the van post haste.
            Staggering along the trail, using his shears as a makeshift cane, he made steady time returning to the Dodge. Once there he procured the first-aid kit from behind the driver's seat, popped open the three year old prescription of generic Hydrocodone and crunched two of them with his remaining molars. "Aged," he quipped, amused with himself. He then got to sorting through the mess of bandages and dressings until he felt the cool can of Bio-Freeze. Eagerly, hands still trembling, he removed the cap and proceeded to coat himself with a foul smelling mist. To him it reeked of some sort of solvent, incarnated by some putrescent propellant. 
            He began to feel a little better.
            Now reclining in the passenger's seat, Harold sorted through the crumpled pack of Camels for the one that wasn't cracked or broken. '_If only these came in a hard pack, after all these goddamn years, if only...' _he thought. He found his treasure and gave it a sniff of satisfaction as he poked the bent, but not otherwise damaged end of the cigarette into the corner of his mouth.
            Harold leaned back there for awhile, finally returning to a state of mind resembling sanity. He puffed good naturedly at the cigarette as the pills worked their magic. Within minutes he was feeling 100% again, or at least a solid seventy-five. What a wonderful discovery, that Hydrocodone. Really digs you out in a pinch. He was, without sounding too cliché, comfortably numb.
            Ten minutes passed, maybe fifteen. Who was really counting? The reality of the situation had since left him and all he knew now was a false sense of well being. "Sumna-cocksuckin'-bitches," he leaked, and chuckled at his vulgarity. He'd been doing a lot of that lately, laughing at himself. Was he becoming senile? The good Lord only knew...
_4_​              Harold woke with a startle.
            "Hmmph..." He exhaled as he sat up in the seat. It was quarter passed eight. The boys had been in the field for about two and a half hours. He wondered at their progress. Normally the four older fellows had made it about ten rows in right now, and the pups were anywhere from five to seven in. It wasn't unusual for the seniors to finish early and often times assist the others as to take break early.
            Harold reached for his now lukewarm coffee and took a generous sip. It was about time for him to check on his worker's progress, to critique their work.
  He made his way to what he believed to be the first row, he couldn't remember exactly. The drug had made his memory faulty at best. He surveyed the first few trees thoughtfully. A little nip with the shears near the tip here, a couple swift whacks at one of the taller trees over there and he was sated. 
  "Not perfect, but not bad," he muttered.
  There was always room for improvement near the juvenile end, which was somehow forgivable.
* * *​            Harold remembered when he was just a boy, maybe eight or nine, and Grandpa Steve had brought him out to the field for the first time. Gramps spent a good hour describing the different 'breeds' of trees, the way some were very soft while others were more coarse. He'd stressed the importance of keeping your tools sharp, as a dull blade is much more dangerous than a sharp one.
            Harold's tools were brand new that day, all freshly oiled and shiny. He was anxious to try them out.
            His grandfather had sensed this in little Harry from the moment he arrived at his daughter's to pick him up. The boy was standing at the edge of the driveway wearing jeans, a red flannel and a shit-eating grin. 
            "Ready to go!" young Harold chimed, and before the old man knew it, his grandson was clambering up into the cab of his new pick-up. 
            "Hi Grammpuh! Can we go now?" Harold queried. 
            "Well I 'spose," the old timer replied, "just remind me to come say hello to your mother when we get back home."
            "Okey doke," Harold merrily responded.
* * *​            Out somewhere in the vastness of a fledgling pine portion of the most northern plantation, stood an eager boy ready and willing to learn the tricks of the trade.
            Grandpa had lead him to a small tree that was just about as tall as Harold himself and ordered him to simply, "Have at 'er."
            With a toothy smile and wide eyes Harold took his first swing at the juvenile pine. It resounded with a satisfying _TWACK! _which excited him even more. He looked questioningly up at his grandfather, somehow asking with his expression of he'd done good. Grandpa replied with a wry grin and a slight nod. At that, the boy began to slowly but surely get the feel for the blade in his hand, and worked his way around the tree.
            "The best learner is experience boy," the old man yelled in between whacks. "I'll letcha have a go at this here row of twenty. If yer last tree looks better n' your first, I'll give ya ten cents for each one ya finish. Sound like a deal partner?"
            "Deal chief!", Harold squealed. By now he was in a steadied frenzy.
            Steve nodded assuringly to that. He figured it might be best if he let the boy go off on his own, as to not pressure him with his presence. The old man turned himself around and began walking away from little Harold, fully trusting that his flesh and blood would make him proud today.
            He raised a Lucky Strike to his lips, and no sooner than it took to flick the match he was startled by an agonizing scream...
            The cigarette fell from his mouth as he hurried back to where his grandson stood, still wailing in a fevered tone.
            "Jesus Christ o' mighty boy whatchoo done to yerself?!" huffed the old man as he stomped nearer. 
            Harold grew immediately silent. A flood of shame and tears washed over his face as he turned around to his Grandpa to show him what he'd done.
            To the old man's horror and initial disbelief, he'd seen indeed what little Harry had done. There, lodged in probably twice the width of the machete itself, stuck a now reddening blade from the outside of Harold's left thigh. An oozing river of crimson streaked his new Wrangler's with gore.
            "Well holy fuck ball Jesus Chris’son! Are you alright?" the man asked in terror.
            Harold, frightened and ashamed, could only reply by turning his head to the left and then to the right. No, he was most definitely _NOT _alright. His leg was throbbing with the intensity of an over-stimulated young man who was getting his first real taste of the _juice of life_. He was becoming dizzy very quickly. 
            The old man scooped the wounded boy up with a quickness he had not know he'd still possessed and carried him in his arms back to the truck, leaving a behind him a thin trail of dripping blood.
* * *​            Harold's memory fell short at that point, he'd passed out from the loss of blood. Or the shock... Or both.
            What he did remember is waking up two days later in his bed covered in a quilt. The good doctor had given him stitches, fifty-three to be precise. It looked like there was a seven inch zipper on the outside of his thigh, which became the source of many light hearted jokes for years to come.
            One particular Thanksgiving for example, Harold had appointed himself as the carver of the turkey.
            "Don't stand so close to Harry Ma," his older sister Lilly would tease. "That is if you fancy walking on two legs."
            They all would snicker.
            Harold didn't snicker though, Harold felt like a complete dumbass about his accident for a good many of his early years. Time heals wounds, right? That's only what they wanted you to believe.
_5_​            By the time Harold had finished reminiscing, rather, re-living that traumatic childhood event, it was nearly five minutes to nine.
            He opened the glove compartment and grabbed a pack of smokes that hadn't sustained a spanking and gathered his wits. Time for morning break. Morning break indeed...
* * *​            One by one his worker bee's shuffled lazily back to the van, ready to rest their legs and swill some carbonated beverages.
            Harold dragged out the cooler from the front seat, full of ice and assorted sodas. Each of them lined up single file for their refreshment and Harold was once again impressed by their degree of discipline. These guys had come from a part of Mexico where crime ran rampant, and "do as thou wilt" was indeed the whole of the law. Harold was jerked out of his train of thought.
            "Boss! Hey, what happeen to your face?" Pedro, the second youngest of them asked. "It look like a beeg red balloon!"
            A chorus of cheerful laughter followed the final remark.
            Harold couldn't be angry at that, he let out a chuckle himself. "Naw, goddamn sumna bitchin' wasps is what happened. Pissed off a whole nest of the little bastards somethin' fierce."
            The crew listened intently, afterwards talking amongst themselves. Those who spoke fluent English interpreted the country drawl as best they could to the rest.
            The conversation between chief and crew ceased with that. When break was over Harold hoisted the cooler back into the van. The rest of the day went off without a hitch.
_6_​            When the day was finally done it was nearly three-thirty. The sun was beginning to make its descent on horizon. The Vicodin was wearing off, and Harold was becoming a bit irritable.
            He pulled into the driveway where the Mexicans had their shack and dropped them off, giving them a tip of the hat as he wheeled off for home. 
  "What a freakin' day, what a _fuckin' _day is more like," Harold sighed. It had been just that, one hell of a day. Nearly getting stung to death definitely qualified as a rough one.
* * *​            Harold pulled into his own driveway at around quarter passed four and was relieved to finally be home. Now he could relax, have himself a bit of supper and call it a night. 
            It was damn cold outside, 43 degrees to be sure. It was that time of year, the leaves were falling off all over the place and everything was dying. Harold had not expected to join the rest of nature in that transition, but he was sadly mistaken.
            Harold climbed the steps up to his own little ransacked shack and took his gear off. He sat down in a tattered blue leather Lazy Boy and turned the tube on. He caught the end of the weather report for the day, which stated that it was to drop ten degrees over night. 
            "Great, just friggin' great," he grumbled.
            When the newscast was over Harold made his way to the fridge and pulled out a pot of week old beef stew. He scooped a generous helping into a bowl and threw it in the microwave. 
            Harold sat back down for dinner and watched sitcoms until his eyelids began to sag and droop. He lifted himself from the chair and started towards the bathroom.
            With his body still throbbing from the assault he endured, he figured it best to draw himself a hot bath to calm his flesh. He turned the faucet on and undressed, looking forward to soaking his sore frame. When the tub was about three quarters full he realized that there was no hot water coming out. 
            "Goddamn motherfuck, sumna bitchin' water heater!" he spewed and ran downstairs in his skivvies to see what the problem was. The problem was low pressure on the heating valve, it'd rusted through in a section and was leaking. The electric tape he had wrapped around it had since corroded and was falling off in strands. 
            "Well ain't that just grand, friggin' fantastic," he sneered. 
            Harold headed back upstairs and shuffled through the cupboards for a heating element that he used to make popcorn. Successfully locating it, he went back into the bathroom and placed it in the tub on the far end. 
            While he waited for the water to get warm enough, he had a seat on the toilet and made a grump. When he was satisfied that the water had leveled out at the right temperature he tested it with his hand. 
            "Right as rain," he said. 
            Before climbing in Harold opened the medicine cabinet and found his other prescription of Vicodin. This was the non-generic Watson stuff, and it was fairly new. He thought it would be a good move to take one or two before he went to bed so he could sleep through the night without waking up sore. He popped one and a half into his mouth and dry swallowed them.
            Undressing the rest of the way, he eased himself into the tub. Fully relaxed now, Harold reached down in-between his legs and gave the ol' worm a good pulling. When he was finished, he felt about ready to doze off. He sat there, numbly thinking about the day and without realizing it actually did fall asleep.
            He never woke up...
* * *​            Two days later there was a rapping at the door. His brother Mark had come to see why Harold hadn't been picking up the crew for work and figured he had better go see what was wrong with him.
            After knocking for five minutes and getting no response, he jimmied the lock and got in. 
            The television was still on, as were all the lights in the kitchen. 
            "Harold! Haaaaarold! Where are ya ol' boy?", he yelled.
            There was an _off_ smell circling the whole house and he wondered if Harold might have left a pork roast in the oven too long.  Harry was a bit forgetful these days.
            He made his way through the house, looking in every door and finding nothing until he opened up the bathroom door.
            In utter horror he had seen indeed what was keeping Harold tied up. 
            In the bathtub there lie a browning mass of decaying skin and matted hair. It reeked of decomposition and boiled meat. Harold had left the heating element on and had fallen asleep. He literally cooked to death in his slumber. 
  Stifling himself, Mark gagged and eventually lost his breakfast all over the floor, screaming in reaction to the sight of his beloved brother reduced to a sort of human soup.
* * *​            The coroner arrived and was initially shocked at the macabre mess floating in the tub. The face of the creature bobbing up and down had melted off and risen to the top above the mass of stewed human organs and flesh. 
            Getting this one to the morgue would be a treat for sure... 
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                                                                                         ©Fritz Vetter 2005


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## WCB (May 22, 2011)

Good one man, I really enjoyed it. You have a style akin to Stephen King, a knack for horror I must say.  Keep it up.


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## Trides (May 22, 2011)

Nice work indeed, read the whole way through without stopping.
Yum... soup.


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