One morning (at around five o´clock) Rasher woke up to begin his chores and his belly was really hurting him. There was no toilet so he had to crap in a corner of the shed and endure the smell. No one came to let him out to do his jobs. “Oh Christ”, he thought, “they must be going to slaughter me today.” He thought that because he was an intelligent pig not like the majority of them that are content to live in joyful denial, happy as pigs in shit.
However, here was a fiercely unhappy pig, standing in his own shit, and he knew the end, whatever it was, was not going to be any kind of dream come true.
Later that day the fat pig who had slimmed down a wee bit, a very wee bit came strutting down to the shed wearing a pink tutu and headband to match. He handed him a brown bag that was swimming in grease. “Eat up all that and you won´t have to work for the week.”
Rasher wheezed “when are you going to kill me?”
“Kill you, kill you?” shrieked the pig while attempting an awkward sort of pirouette. “Myself and the rat wouldn´t dream of hurting you like that.”
“Oh, but you don´t mind working me like a slave, starving me, overfeeding me and leaving me stand here all day locked up in my own shite.” shouted the heavy Rasher.
“Let me put it to you this way.” said the other fat pig, “things could be much worse for you, we are selling you to farmer Gillespie, so you´d better buck up and be enormous by this time next month or I´ll let the rat devour you.”
“But the farmer will cook me for several dinners.” yelped Rasher, wobbling in terror.
“That´s not my problem, is it?” said the pig pompously as he adjusted his hairband and trotted off to his ballet lesson.
