Dawn broke over the cracked windows of the Pi Iota Gamma fraternity. The living area was strewn with red Solo cups, pizza boxes, overturned kegs, and the general detritus of a weekend rager. This metaphorical pigsty was given more literal weight by the presence of an actual pig snoring on the rug.
Suresh, President of PIG (???) and de facto babysitter for this motley fraternal order, called the brotherhood to arms with his bellow, “Who stole a fucking pig?”
A disheveled carrot-top popped up from behind the meaty backside of the black Berkshire hog. “A little help, please?” yelped Roscoe.
Suresh rushed around the hulking beast to find Roscoe’s right arm pinned underneath. Using a ski as a lever, they got his arm out without waking the pig.
Gradually the denizens of PIG found their way into the trashed room and circled Suresh.
“Last night’s scavenger hunt was a success,” said Suresh, arm sweeping over safety cones, bras, and a toilet. “But no brass pig.”
“Brass? It said brass?” said Roscoe, the blood finally circulating to his brain. “I thought it read big-ass, as in big-ass pig!” He raised a cup in salute and downed the lukewarm contents.
Suresh ran his hand down his face. One more semester, just one. “Where did you find said pig?”
“Schweinfeld’s Farm….”
“I’m going to stop you right there. Tyrone!”
“Here, Boss,” said Tyrone, headset dangling from his neck, laptop ready.
“I need intel on Schweinfeld’s grounds. This pig goes back tonight,” said Suresh. Tyrone nodded and raced upstairs.
“What?” Roscoe snuggled the enormous animal. “She could be our mascot.”
“Brothers, Roscoe forgets we’ll be kicked off campus if there’s another incident. Get me Wrangler,” demanded Suresh. “If anyone comes sniffing around, tell them we’ve been quarantined!”
“For swine flu!” guffawed Roscoe.
Wrangler entered, hair slicked back and boots clomping. He strode over to inspect the hog’s collar.
“Schweinfeld’s famed truffle pig, Flash. Usually held in a high-tech pen. Lucky for us, her geolocator tag is broken. Roscoe, how’d you manage this, sight unseen?”
“Well,” hiccuped Roscoe, “the details are hazy because of the drinking… and the cocaine. Me, not Flash, of course.”
“Wrangler, keep Flash safe. Tyrone’s working recon. We’ll sneak her back tonight.”
“What about me?” asked Roscoe, pouting, his sunburnt face bright against Flash’s black hide.
“Tonight, you get shit-faced and coked out of your gourd. We’ll reverse engineer your drunken revelry to get Flash back home.”
***
Suresh, dressed in camo, met Wrangler and Tyrone in the sub-cellar. As predicted, the police had stopped by to determine the whereabouts of Schweinfeld’s prized possession. Luckily, their windowless initiation room was a perfect hideout. Flash was ravenous; having devoured everything in the fridge, she worked through a bag of Funyuns. Suresh looked concerned until Wrangler assured him this was acceptable porcine nutrition.
“Gentleman, Operation Flying Pig is a go. Roscoe is three-quarters of the way into his intoxication, and Tyrone has the place mapped out,” said Suresh.
“Flash’s pigsty is adjacent to the barn with new video surveillance,” said Tyrone.
“Can you hack their system?” asked Suresh.
“Already in, Boss.”
“Guards?” asked Wrangler.
“It’s two unarmed farmhands. My source says they take a smoke break at midnight,” said Tyrone
“That’s when we’ll strike. Tyrone’s remote and will cut the lights if things get weird. Wrangler’s got Flash. I’ll wrangle Roscoe,” said Suresh.
On cue, Roscoe sauntered in and hurled himself onto Flash, asking, “Who’s a good little girl?”
“Men, it’s on,” said Suresh.
“Sooey!” yelled Wrangler, and the pig and Roscoe scampered on all fours.
They exited via the storm doors, guiding Flash up the ramp. They hid behind Flash’s bulk as they crossed into Schweinfeld’s farm from their yard. Crickets and occasional giggles from Roscoe were all they heard.
“Shush,” whispered Suresh.
“Shush, slush, mush… shrooms,” replied Roscoe.
Flashlights up ahead forced them to stop. Yellow lights did lazy sweeps back and forth, followed by two men talking.
“Schweinfeld’s gone right mad, I tell ya. Docking pay over some bacon,” said the tallest.
“Dumb, ugly, sonuvabitch pig. If that critter don’t get back, how we gonna keep selling half its feed?” asked the other.
It took Suresh and Wrangler’s combined strength to keep a coked-out Roscoe from charging at them.
“You hear that? Something’s snuffling,” said one of the farmhands.
Suresh took a large rock and threw it as far away as he could.
“Over there!” The two men ran towards it.
When the area quieted, they raced to Flash’s pen. The keypad glowed red as Suresh approached.
“Tyrone told me it would be green if he’d disabled it.”
“I got this, Boss.” Roscoe punched four ones, and the keypad glowed green. The gate sprung open. “It’s my birthday!”
“You lucky drunkard! I could kiss you!”
Wrangler led Flash towards the pen, but she stopped at the gate and sat down.
“Get in there, baby girl, for Papa.” Roscoe danced before Flash with an exuberant display of shimmying and rump shaking.
Cigarette smoke blew in like a foul wind.
“What have we here? Frat boy thieves. I told Schweinfeld that.” The farmhands dropped their cigarettes and pulled out cattle prods. One zapped Flash with the end of his, making her squeal as she stood, backing them all toward the open pen.
Suddenly the overhead lights blacked out. In the sudden confusion, Roscoe, with his coke-fueled adrenaline, roundhouse-kicked the prods from their hands. Suresh, determined to leave no PIG behind, pushed both men through the gate with Wrangler’s help and locked them in Flash’s pen.
“Sooey!” yelled Wrangler.
***
The following day, they awoke in their chapter room. Roscoe’s arms curled around Flash protectively when in strode Farmer Schweinfeld.
“It’s not what it looks like,” said Roscoe blearily.
“I’m here to thank you, boys, for looking after my beauty,” said Schweinfeld. “Your man, Tyrone, sent audiovisuals of those abusive monsters.” Schweinfeld pointed to Roscoe. “Son, you’re welcome to come to care for our baby anytime.”
“Sooeyyyeet!!” yelled Roscoe, hugging Flash’s glorious hide.
Nina Miller is an Indian-American physician, fencer, and creative. Her hybrid work can be found in Cutbow Quarterly and Raw Lit, her prose and poetry in Sci-Fi Shorts, Every Day Fiction, Bright Flash Literary Review, Five South, Roi Fainéant, Five Minutes and more. Find her hanging out @NinaMD1, ninamiller.bsky.social, or at other relevant socials of our time. Find her published pieces at www.ninamillerwrites.com.
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