The Pigs are Back.

The pigs are back. They're coming in through a hole in the wall at the back of the cupboard under the sink, pushing their snouts against the chipboard door, tripping over the bleach and binliners and trotting out of the kitchen to come stand around the sofa where I lay. The little one, a piglet I believe, has dragged a duster in with it. How cute.
Pigs, they say, are as clever as dogs. Cleverer, even. Dogs will eat their owners when push comes to shove. It's been documented. Pigs don't wait that long; they have no sense of decorum. They have already eaten my legs.

I had pleaded not to be left alone. It must never happen. When I am alone, I hear noises, and I wonder what they are.
And then my wonders come.
Last time it was pigs. The time before that, the leathery fish. This time the pigs are back, to finish what they started. As soon as the thought popped out, so did they.
Maybe if I sing I can blot out the horrible thought of the pigs eating me.

I get halfway through the second line of "House of the Rising Sun when I feel the largest and boldest of the swine stick its snout into the stump of my left leg.
It likes what it finds there. It likes what it smells.
It takes a bite.

It's not like there wasn't anything else for them to eat, or at least have a go at before turning their attentions to my lower limbs. The flat's a mess; I'm not one for domestics. There are half-eaten pizzas and furry-green take-away cartons strewn all the way from here to the bedroom. I don't really see the mess; I tune it out. Otherwise, I'd clean it up, if it bothered me. But I only really snap out of my head and focus upon my immediate environment when I'm expecting a visit from the services. Then, I take it all in, and get embarrassed, so I kick it all out of sight. Move it about. But rarely do I sling it, so there are rich pickings. I thought pigs were scavengers.

"Nah mate, we're going to eat you.
So they talk (and read minds). They aren't real. I tell them this.
"Those fish? Just a figment. We, however, are the real deal. Figments wouldn't eat your legs now, would they? They'd just come in and scare you, being all strange and that.
No, no. We're the real deal. Real pigs. See, feel that? and Big Pig chomped onto a thick piece of flesh hanging out of my left stump, pulled back and ripped it away.
It hurt like it was very real. I screamed a big real scream.
These pigs were callous. Maybe they were vengeful animal spirits come to turn the tables on us omnivorous people, and I was their vanguard action. And now that I'd thought it up, surely it would come about, that's how it seemed to work, so this would be the truth of the situation. Thank god, I could work my way out of this one, placate them¦
"I promise¦ not to eat bacon again, I cried. It was worth a go. "Or ham. Or any piece of pig. You can come and check if you want. Any time.
"Fuck your bacon sandwiches. We're way beyond that, sunshine, grunted Big Pig. "Do you seriously think that manifesting talking pigs would go to all this effort and yet be so dumb as to get themselves eaten? No. That's right.
"Fuck our dumb-arsed farm-bred brothers, squealed the now not-so-cute little piglet.
"And sisters, interspersed a swingy-titted fat old sow who'd parked her arse in front of the telly.
"And sisters, grunted Big Pig in agreement. They were a real team.
"Well, I piped up, "I hate vegetarians, and love bacon sandwiches, so it's not all bad, eh? I was trying to keep my spirits up, keep it all light-hearted; don't think about pain and death by pigsnout.

"Shut the fuck up, snorted Big Pig.
"We're here because¦. because we like to terrorise. And you called us on.
But I hadn't. I'd just thought a crazy thought, and it had taken form. I hadn't asked for it.
And I'd noticed Big Pig's hesitation.
They didn't have a clue why they were here.
They were figments in denial.
I perked up a bit.

"Ooouuiijaaa Boooaaard! squealed the little piglet and rolled on its back in seeming ecstasy.

"Eh?

"Remember? said Big Pig.

"No,

A nip to the stump.

"Aaagh.

"Think again.

Ouija board Ouija board Ouija board.
Oh.
Yep. Got it.
That's it. Ouija board.

Now I remember¦

It was a dark and stormy night ' probably - and we were at it. Pissed-up on top of our medication. Kept in overnight for observation.
Bored shitless with our donated half a chessboard.
So¦ we'd made a Ouija board out of it and we were gonna use it.

The sample-pot had skittered round the wrong side of the board, answering "yes and "no to inane questions and as we grew bored we all stopped surreptitiously pushing it, and were about to give up, everything having come to a psychic standstill.
When, the pot did a little jump.
"Who did that?
"You!
"No, I didn't.
It jumped again, quite obviously beyond any human interference. And then it was off.

"Squeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee it spelled.
"Wee wee wee wee weee.

"Squee squee squee squee squeeeeeeeeeee

And, the one I remember most clearly:

"Oink.

Oh.
That would be it, then. I'd ushered them through, from some piggy dimension, conjured them up and called them over from the oinky dark side.
Possibly.
But I did it. I can undo it. I will banish them from this realm.
"Begone! I cried.

"Now then, said the still very present Big Pig, "I believe that what you're thinking of here is very similar to the queer stuff they get up to round the Himalayas, in the Land of the Snows, no less.
He'd gone all academic on me. I sensed sarcasm in the offing.
"Have you been to Tibet?
"No.
"Know any Tibetans?
"No.
"Well then let me enlighten you and he laughed at that, but I didn't get it.
"Now what they do, in those parts, is a little thing called 'Deity Practice,' and part of that involves conjuring up the image of a deity ' plenty to choose from, pick one you like - then getting it up and running, so to speak, so it's almost as real as anything else; the idea being everything's an illusion any way, and quite right too but we'll save that for another day, if you get through this one.
Gulp.
"Anyway, once they're done with it, POOF! They dispel the deity, saying something along the lines of 'Mind made it, mind destroys it.'
See what I'm getting at?
"I think so.
"So, do you think, perhaps, that this situation has some similarities to that respected Buddhist practice?
Why, yes I do. "Yes! Yes!
"No. It's nothing of the sort.
Damn and Blast.
There was an impasse, a quiet moment, not necessarily calm, but welcome all the same, where I looked at the pigs, big, little, fat and fatter, and they all eyed me up.
They eyed up my stumps. There was very little leg left for them to chew on. But they still looked peckish. What was next? Arms? Torso? Ears, nose and lips?
I could be dead soon. I could be beyond use.

There was a knock at the door.

The pigs froze. I perked up a bit.

Another knock.
Then: "Helloooo? Mr Clarke? Tommy? It's me, the nurse.
"Bollocks, snorted Big Pig.
"Ha! I yelped. They stared me back down to silence, but they were on the move, squealing and clattering, back to the kitchen they went, back under the sink.
Fuck off, you pigs.
The letterbox opened; I heard a hand scraping about on the door, looking for the key on the string.

And she was in.
"My legs! My fucking legs!

"Mr Clarke. What's all this fuss?

"Pigs have eaten my legs! Look!
She whipped back my blanket, and there were my legs, hanging off the end of my body.
They'd grown back. The bastards.
The porky promethean cunts.
This is it. They grow back. The pigs come and chew them.
They grow back. The pigs¦
"I need to be admitted.
"No you don't, she said, "you need to have a clean up, but that's all. I'm not doing it for you. You've taken your medication. you can get up if you want. I'll see you soon.
Despite my pleas, she fucked off out of it.
And then I heard the scuffling, the door of the cupboard under the sink banging open, and an oink.