Where The Pigs Go Wee Wee

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Literary Fiction  |  House: Review Chain


 

After considerable introspection that provided no relief for his inflamed eyes, inner ear, notable nose, itchy skin, or expanding liver, Zev Vlaski had enough mulling over fleeting fame and filthy fortune. Once done, he did not shirk from duty. Sure, there was a lot of heart and soul invested in this project. From its inception, the fully formed but flawed robot Alexandra was his baby. He successfully battled the bean counters, suits, and trolls to get his way. Until, that is, he realized just in time that he loved her too much, cared too much about outcomes, became too close to see in front of that notable nose. He thought, where have I come from, where am I at, where am I going? How much is the cost? And not for the first time. Everyone knows caring too much leads to a dead end in a flaming dumpster. He allowed his desires to become his expectations. Everyone knows expectations that blur vision, which is all expectations, are akin to suicide and murder. There was nothing lovable about Alexandra, not her dour looks, not her calculating module, not her negative thoughts, not her clumsy demeanor. Or more accurately, his previous project.

 

He listened in his former office overlooking an asphalt parking lot in Cupertino, a very presentable prefabbed cubicle cut like a cookie from flexible eco-foam in British Columbia, and looked at his chosen successor for a full minute minimum, withstanding an unfettered monologue of bombast from a smug, mushy man, plus some minor seconds that did not add up, before walking out. He did not look back. He was confident no one was gaining on him. In the large parking lot filled with smarmy Audis and Porsches leased with little money down by his former credit worthy peers, the sun was still shining. The sun was not cowed by obsessively swept asphalt plagued by a blight of straight white lines and poison tipped arrows. Zev already knew where not to go.

 

The smug successor, Larry Weiner, was a hybrid precursor of a very large brain filled with untested laws and unproven formulas that teetered atop a mostly useless body. A shrunken body will become highly desirable in a contained capsule orbiting in space. Computer modeling is ongoing while evolution lags behind. Larry's souffle of a body only required a soft, and pliable chair in front of a gang of screens, custom molded to fit his lard ass, that would swivel, roll, tilt, and bend over. It mattered little to Larry he had no hair, no flair, no taste, no zest. He possessed a degree from MIT. He used an app to remind him when to change his socks. What mattered most to Larry is what eggs hatched on the screen to provide nourishment for the very hungry and still growing brain.

 

As a high grade hybrid, and purely for security purposes, Larry was unable to recognize or identify a fellow hybrid. He could not be certain, therefore, about the chemistry or wiring of ginger snappy Craig, the mate matched to flawed robot Alexandra according to status quo code. Based upon the video files he had been reviewing, however, there was cause for fact based suspicions. Many signs of an early and crude transitional phase were present. The package of borderline personality disorders inflamed by infantilism was dismaying to see. The object dripped and he leaked. As such, his was the epitome of a beta version that would not be missed.

 

Larry was cogitating on how to quantify the disturbing episode in which a distracted Craig, in a moment of infantile exultation, had raised his arms high above his head to celebrate a stirring series of victories over wussy blades of enemy grass. An implanted memory of a bee sting in early development had caused a homicidal hatred for small living things. Not only bugs suffered. To plants with enlightened senses, the smell of a mowed lawn is akin to napalm. Clearly, Craig had misunderstood the preferred programming of hybrids that stressed postures in exultation copied from Tour de France bicyclers, Bulgarian weightlifters, Bolshoi ballerinas, and Forrest Gump. Was it inevitable that in opting to steer his racist John Deere mower with no hands, and daring to duplicate a classic tricky Dick Nixon pose, V for victory over all opponents, he would hit a bump, tilt like a pinball machine, and topple from the padded seat of his racist John Deere mower? Well, yeah, like... duh.

 

A local hospital had to be hacked and unsightly x-rays altered in the emergency response and recovery from that fiasco. Stone faced Alexandra was all wrong in playing the role of a concerned wife. Painfully, Zev Vlaski remembered too well. Craig cried like a leaky bucket. But, Zev would never have to consider ginger snappy Craig again. He presumed Alexandra would be scrapped for the price of her precious metals.

 

Zev's sad eyes did not burn so much once past the summit of the Santa Cruz Mountains. The San Andreas Fault was at peace, the waves at Pleasure Point lost in a sea of foam. The sunny patio of the Corralitos Brewing Company was uncrowded in mid-afternoon. Spiky Pride of Madeira was in full bloom, arm in arm with Mexican marigolds, wild rosemary, and flowering arugula. Purple, red, and blue sage preened like ladies of the night and the pale blossoms of a Bartlett pear tree smelled like love was in the air. He intended to leisurely drink until dark, and then stay strong to drink more. Would it be the hazy IPA from Ventura or the hazy IPA from Sparks, Nevada to start?

 

Diane volunteered, "I've always had good luck at Sierra Sid's in Sparks, Nevada."

 

Zev began to feel as if he was lucky sitting right there, right here, right now. The secret to happiness, he was tempted to believe, once cut loose to breathe free, was no secret at all. Learn more, care less, use what you've got, take it to the limit. What if right now is all there is? He wasn't going to argue. What if he made his own luck good? He could hear his mother nudge, "Now you can come back home where you belong."

 

But what if he made this home his own and came to belong? If trapped inside of the enclosed space of a cranial capacity, does it not become imperative to break out, travel in outer space, see some sights?

 

He rented a small house with a small front yard close to a cliff with graying shingles weathered by a mixed spray of salt, heat, and sweetness in La Selva Beach, and he moved in a few days later. It had everything he needed. He had everything he wanted. Spring had sprung without leaking. A Meyer lemon tree came fully loaded. He did not lock his doors. Until he was accosted by his nosy neighbor, Karen, sniffing.

 

Karen liked to walk alongside her effete foo-foo dog on foot patrol in the neighborhood. No leash was good enough to hold her bon cherie.Their love was too grand to be contained by laws of mere men. She carried a pooper scooper for show, though she would never deign to stoop so low. She did not shrink from push and shove to gain ground. None of it had to belong to her. Peeking through the parted sheers of gaping windows was A-okay. Par on her course was flexible.

 

Zev did not peek, but stared back, and spat, "What do you think you're doing?"

 

Karen demanded, "Who are you?

 

Zev demanded, "Who are you?"

 

The stare turned organically into a glare. Karen was wearing mirrored logo sunglasses by a very dead Dior, appropriately a very creamy Christian,and tres chic for a mere mortal man.They were exorbitantly priced exclusively for idiots and cretins at Saks Fifth Avenue. Zev was wearing pants and a shirt, socks but no shoes. She met his measly stare and raised her smirk a notch. Unless that notch was a blotch.

 

"Don't be so negative."

 

"Do I know you?"

 

Karen scoffed, "I live nearby. Everyone knows me."

 

"I live here now."

 

"No one told me."
 

"I don't know you."

 

"You will. Everybody does."

 

"There's only one me."

 

"You got off on the wrong foot, that's all, but you will."

 

"I like to think I get to choose."

 

"Do you live here all alone?"

 

"What I said was I don't know you."

 

"Yet, here we are."

 

"Now is a good time to say good-bye."

 

"Make sure to keep the lawn neat and well watered."

 

"Maybe you haven't heard about an historical drought."

 

"A tidy green lawn is best for property values. And mowed weekly, of course."

 

"Again, I repeat: I get to choose for me."

 

"Don't be so silly."

 

"Don't come back without an invitation."

 

Elephants suck hard to draw water, anteaters suck to eat, parasites, vermin, maggots, leeches all suck no less. It takes practice, practice, practice, to suck so hard. But no species sucks as hard as the spooky flesh eating ghouls passing as the current version of homo erectus.

 

She said, "It's never that easy."

 

 

 

Karen was a skilled online stalker. Her crafty fingers were curved to stroll down the shadiest of lanes, her nose a whiz at sniffing dirt. No rotting corpse could stay buried for long under those polished nails. But when she really wanted to show off and strut her stuff, and preach to her true believers, her weapon of choice was the newest iPhone 14 Pro Max, turned up loud. She deserved the best more than anyone. Dick had to work overtime to compensate for his shortcomings. She had to teach the lowly soul everything from the beginning. A reigning queen must be served. Those are the rules.

 

Unlike so many pretenders, the glittering gold and diamonds in her electronic screen, the lithium, silicon, bauxite, dolomite, cobalt, tungsten, tin, and arsenic, were never wasted on Karen. She could distort complex into the simple with a cold blast of static feedback and a twisted grin. Her sweaty laborers in the mines of the Congo would be proud if they only knew.

 

Assessing the value of useful information, and the direction in which it begged to be strewn, was a gift she inherited like her decrepit grandma's mink stole. Texting held small allure. There is no texture in a text, no mood, no dominance and submission. Command requires a strong masterful voice. Conviction requires guilt, no mercy. Sadly, it has become a lost art.

 

She preferred her scarlet stiletto heels, the don't you dare fuck me heels, when speaking to a captive audience. She was blessed to be able to slice and dice as deep as a Jacques Cousteau diver. She stood like a post cemented in rock and did not waver.Her artful tongue became pointed and sharp. Her jaws flapped as if endowed with the wings of a peregrine falcon. Claws, too.

 

She declared, "Duanna, we need to talk," meaning, "Duanna you need to listen."

 

No less flexible than the force of her voice was the placement of the holes she dug to assure her par on her course. She cared for the fairways and greens, but especially the rough. Some of the players had to be taught the game. Some of the players did not know they were playing. She was the only player who chose the clubs she used.

 

Duanna, who did not have to be urged to pledge allegiance, submitted, "I'm listening."

 

Dumb as a petrified rock, Duanna was the first, though not the only receptacle for trash in La Selva Beach, because blubbery Duanna could be counted upon to leak like a Gerber baby sieve. As the self-anointed bunco capital of Central California, the population of La Selva Beach, 2680 with this latest questionable addition, included a disproportionate percentage of bored and boring minds with vacuous time to be filled by shoveling buckets in the sand.

 

Duanna led to Reba who led to Mae who led to Beatrice who led to Brunhilde. They played bunco in the bright rooms of their stuccoed homes featuring granite islands in customized kitchens and chemicals in food, lawns, and pools. In addition, Reba played golf with Mae who played bridge with Beatrice, not Bea. Mae had a maid she didn't trust, had her for years. She had to close the door to speak freely in tongues. Several coped at varying times with children who disobeyed and took the name of the Lord in vain. Lame ass husbands helped out only as often lame asses do.

 

Not as dumb though just as petrified as the other rocks, Brunhilde was the prize. Tall and rigid, she filled her space age Jetson onesie like hot gas fills a dirigible. She had to be handled with great care, but no touch. Her lame ass husband who lacked honor took off with a hot young thing who proffered blow jobs. The slut felt no remorse. Disgusting.

 

Unlike many, dignified Brunhilde knew where she came from and how to stay there. Her strong roots began to take hold on a pig farm in Bavaria. Bavarian pigs are raised in the only correct manner, no straw. If you can't stand the stink stay back from the sty. Next, what? Crying over suffering and loss?

 

Several generations later an honorable son was raising his pigs among the backward Mennonite and Amish farmers sixty miles west of Philadelphia until he shot a man in a tavern on Germantown Ave. in that wicked city. He claimed he had been insulted. The man was a despicable atheist. Righteously, the son claimed it was self defense. And he ran.

 

Several generations after that, a son of a no less honorable son receiving a second chance was raising his pigs in Germantown, Wisconsin before shooting a man in a Milwaukee tavern who insulted his homeland and praised the Socialist mayor of that wicked city. The man had skin less ruddy than his own and spoke with a foreign accent. The man deserved it. And he ran.

 

The son made a good run. He encounted dust and wind and cowboys and Indians. His honor was never in question. His destiny was manifest. He ran fast. He shot a man in Reno just to see him die. That did not stop him from running.

 

It was not very far across invisible state lines from Reno to Dinuba in the very hot and arid San Joaquin Valley of California. He naturally did what a man like him knows how to do. He raised Bavarian pigs and watched them grow. He savored the stink in the sty. It made a strong man stronger. He vowed to hold on to it and never let go. He needed plenty of water to raise the weight of his pigs before market. He learned how to get it and he got it. You don't get plenty of water where there is very little water without practice, practice, practice.

 

He did not rage against the injustice of arcane laws governing water rights in California in which those who use more, pay less, acquire more, take more, pay less, buy more, sell more, pay less, grab more, care less, profit more. He did what any honorable man with spunk and know how would do. He strapped on his leather, saddled up, and joined the posse. You don't get as far as he did by being weak or dumb in Bavaria. Dinuba, too.

 

Brunhilde's father, who after returning triumphantly from combat in Viet Nam enjoyed a meteoric rise to Commander of Dinuba's finest American Legion Post 393 on North Englehart Avenue, never shot a man he was able to look in the eye and see. But he knew he could. He consolidated the three pig farms of his brother and cousin into one larger pig farm of his own. His many more pigs needed much more water than ever on such a large farm. He continued to learn how to get more, and he got it.

 

Brunhilde received her numerous royalty payments for the water rights she owned on a monthly, quarterly, and ytd basis. She received periodic commissions from trades. Interest accrued like the peaches on her tree. She cherished her rights to her water endowed by her creator. With the wondrous advancement of automatic deposit to her numerous bank accounts, life under the rule of law was better than ever. Her fat ass was happy. The law was the law. It required vigilance to keep it that way.

 

Every law abiding citizen knows that wicked law breakers must be punished. It takes a strong hand unafraid of dirt under the nails to do what must be done. Her very close associiate, The Reverand Wright Goochy, spiritual leader of the Roly-Holy-Poly Church of Faith and Devotion in Immersion, was a man she had the honor to know with the know how.

 

When she called him up, it was not just to say, "Hi."


Submitted: May 11, 2022

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