Louis the Farmer and His Pigs

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Status: Finished  |  Genre: Historical Fiction  |  House: Booksie Classic
Louis is quite a wealthy man running his farm given to his family ages ago. But one day, something rathers unsettling happens.

Submitted: February 21, 2012

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Submitted: February 21, 2012

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Louis was a swineheard and quite devoted to his profession at that. For centuries, son after father, the Louis family had grown vine and hearded the most reputable flock of pork in the country. Louis was proud of his roots that reached deep into the very heart of the land that sustained him like his ancestors before him. Naturally he had not personally been witness to all of his land in its vastness, Great God, no, he did have servants for that sort of thing, after all. Watching out of the window, marveling at the splendour of his noble crops and the far less noble workers toiling on them, he felt a great sense of freedom, freedom reserved solely for wealthy landowners such as him, as nature's law dictated it.

One evening, having worked all day at his writing desk, reading documents, writing letters and carrying out payments, Louis the farmer rubbed his eyes. He opened the curtains and noticed sun had already set. "Time to have a bite to eat and go to bed, then", he thought to himself. Louis rang a bell, informing the servants of his new-found hunger. He stretched his arms, located the documents and other official papers each in their respective place and stood up from his comfortable working chair.

He was wearing a red bonnet, a blue jacket, a white vest and pants and pop socks. His massive stomache almost bulged out of his vest telling the tale of his outrageous well-being, but by some miracle, it remained concealed. He opened the door to his bureau and started to descend the stairs. Going down, he heard some peculiar noises, quite out of the ordinary, rumble of several pairs of tiny feet and some vague brouhaha that seemed to mainly consist of... surely not..? oinking..?

Louis felt strangely destraught. "Blast! What the hell is going on down there?" Carefully, evading to make any sounds that would reveal his presence, he made the rest of his way down the stairs. And indeed! Pigs! Dozens of pigs were rolling, spinning, oinking and thudding against one another in complete and utter chaos. Louis could not believe his eyes. The pigs were his own! But what were they doing indoors? The pigsty was where they belonged! Louis did not yet know who was in question but according to his reasoning, someone was going to get the axe, and very shortly at that.

When the pigs noticed their master standing at the foot of the stairs one of them let out the most authoritative and prominent oink Louis had ever heard in his lifetime. All of the sudden the disorder came to a halt, the aimless oinking to an end, and the pigs organised themselves in lines, leaving a crevasse between them, a trail leading to the kitchen door. A pig stepped out of the kitchen door and started to slowly stroll down the trail towards Louis. And what a pig it was! Its glistening damask skin, its aristocratic snout that could have convinced anyone of the pigs superiority as a being in general. Louis recognised this pig. It was the apple of his eye, the pride of his piggery, Orson Welles, lord of all swine, the reincarnation of goddess Venus in the form of a pig.

Louis fell on his knees. "Orson Welles, what on earth is this?" he asked with a sense of rather justified shock in his voice. The wonderful pig answered with no hesitation but sadly, Louis did not understand the language he was being adressed in. In other words, Orson Welles was oinking. And we're not talking of any short meaningless oink, no sir, nothing of the kind! The lord of all swine oinked for a long period of time, making use of carefully planned out intonations and pauses to give his hoggish comrades time to squeal loudly in his favor.

"You must believe me", said the scared swineherd, "I would help you if I knew what you're saying, I really would! I have no idea what you want from me." Orson Welles made a simple gesture with his cleft hoof and the applause stopped as if a wall had appeared between him and the other pigs. It oinked a command and a few pigs left the farthest-off row to carry out the task at hand. After a short while, they returned reeling ahead of them a large barrel, filled with the best wine of Louis's land. The barrel was placed opposite to Louis. Clearly, this was a friendly gesture and although Louis didn't feel like he exactly cared for wine at the moment, he didn't feel like he could refuse in this situation. Fancy that, no glass to be seen. There was but one solution.

"Long live the pigs!" he shouted and stuffed his head into the open barrel. Orson Welles oinked another command and the other pigs lifted the lid back on the barrel. Louis's decapitated body fell on the floor.

Lord of the swine, Orson Welles, jumped on top of the barrel containing the head of his master. "Long live the pigs!" it squaled in revolutionary ecstasy. The squealing of the applauding swine brought on era to an abrupt end, making way for a new one to come into being. There was no stopping development.


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