"We gather here and join hooves today to take part in the giving of goodness, the reaping of crops, the sewing of futures well-earned, and the living of lives well lived. We gather here, on the hallowed ground of our virgin goddess Peppa the Powerful, for the Festival of Fun."
Silence beneath the scorched skies. The Swine stood together. They were all that remained.
There were bags over their heads. Rough sacks stained with soot and farmhouse filth.
Baptisms of mud. They each held their ceremonial knives, forged from pots or perhaps pans, crude metal for a crude function. There was no art in killing, not to them. Instead, it was service. It was duty. And it was honorable. Daddy Pig had the biggest knife and he felt proud whenever it weighed in his hoof, he could feel it thirsting, and all he thought of was Peppa the Powerful.
When the knife thirsted, she hungered.
Had one thousand years passed already?
"Bring out the runt." Daddy Pig said.
And It came as a command, with the strength of thunder and the strike of lighting.
He truly was the God King and it felt good to be the God King. The bagheaded boars and sows, with their sagging fat, their rolls blubbering against each other, and their ornate scarifications dug deep into their flesh, forever raw and forever red, rushed into their shelters of barbed wire and rebar.
They disappeared there. No pain for it was in pain they belonged. There came a shuffling.
They stumbled not when carrying the offering back out.
Little George Pig, the most recent of them, his little body birthed from Mummy Pig.
What a beautiful day that was.
All of these breedings and birthings later and the inspired magic of conception never grew old.
George Pig had been fattened at the golden troph. He had taken part in his daily slop. Drank deep from the troph and always inquired for truth, for something higher, for something beyond the call of a normal life.
So he will have an honorable death.
He had faith indeed. This honorable death would keep the faith.
And Daddy Pig took his knife, performed the rites, and did the ritual. He performed it with pleasure. With the spark of the divine. He was sweating. Breathing heavy. Light and lofty in his mind, his heart, and his spirit. All of him took part in the ritual. He gave all that he was to the moment.. Just like George did.
His body laid still, a flood of his fluids ran like a pure stream through the geometry of black stone trophs laid into the earth. They pooled in a sigil of their house. The visage of Peppa.
Daddy pig smiled. Breathed. The ritual was easy. Every step, an instinct, every movement ingrained in him, like a dance as old as him, a dance as old as time. How he loved to do the dance. He looked over to Mummy Pig in her soiled robes, she too was proud He spoke.. "Rise my eternal daughter, Rise my mother of all. Rise my goddess." And rise Peppa did.
She rose hungered, thirsting, for a worthy offering, for the George of this age. A squeal, a snort, a smack of lips. Nothing remained of George.
Just like that the Fun had been had.
Then the smell of summer and flowers and joy. Trees came from the earth. Flowers came from the earth. The sun shone bright. Everything did. All was well. They all took off their robes and bags. Put on their dressed and shirts. The sky was blue, it was not red. The world appeared simple and happy. Easy for now. Brought from the brink of oblivion. The Restoration complete. Thank you George.
The fun had ceased.
And for one thousand years more, life would go on.
One thousand years, Daddy Pig dreamed.
The Festival would come again. Then and only then would the Fun be had.
There were bags over their heads. Rough sacks stained with soot and farmhouse filth.
Baptisms of mud. They each held their ceremonial knives, forged from pots or perhaps pans, crude metal for a crude function. There was no art in killing, not to them. Instead, it was service. It was duty. And it was honorable. Daddy Pig had the biggest knife and he felt proud whenever it weighed in his hoof, he could feel it thirsting, and all he thought of was Peppa the Powerful.
When the knife thirsted, she hungered.
Had one thousand years passed already?
"Bring out the runt." Daddy Pig said.
And It came as a command, with the strength of thunder and the strike of lighting.
He truly was the God King and it felt good to be the God King. The bagheaded boars and sows, with their sagging fat, their rolls blubbering against each other, and their ornate scarifications dug deep into their flesh, forever raw and forever red, rushed into their shelters of barbed wire and rebar.
They disappeared there. No pain for it was in pain they belonged. There came a shuffling.
They stumbled not when carrying the offering back out.
Little George Pig, the most recent of them, his little body birthed from Mummy Pig.
What a beautiful day that was.
All of these breedings and birthings later and the inspired magic of conception never grew old.
George Pig had been fattened at the golden troph. He had taken part in his daily slop. Drank deep from the troph and always inquired for truth, for something higher, for something beyond the call of a normal life.
So he will have an honorable death.
He had faith indeed. This honorable death would keep the faith.
And Daddy Pig took his knife, performed the rites, and did the ritual. He performed it with pleasure. With the spark of the divine. He was sweating. Breathing heavy. Light and lofty in his mind, his heart, and his spirit. All of him took part in the ritual. He gave all that he was to the moment.. Just like George did.
His body laid still, a flood of his fluids ran like a pure stream through the geometry of black stone trophs laid into the earth. They pooled in a sigil of their house. The visage of Peppa.
Daddy pig smiled. Breathed. The ritual was easy. Every step, an instinct, every movement ingrained in him, like a dance as old as him, a dance as old as time. How he loved to do the dance. He looked over to Mummy Pig in her soiled robes, she too was proud He spoke.. "Rise my eternal daughter, Rise my mother of all. Rise my goddess." And rise Peppa did.
She rose hungered, thirsting, for a worthy offering, for the George of this age. A squeal, a snort, a smack of lips. Nothing remained of George.
Just like that the Fun had been had.
Then the smell of summer and flowers and joy. Trees came from the earth. Flowers came from the earth. The sun shone bright. Everything did. All was well. They all took off their robes and bags. Put on their dressed and shirts. The sky was blue, it was not red. The world appeared simple and happy. Easy for now. Brought from the brink of oblivion. The Restoration complete. Thank you George.
The fun had ceased.
And for one thousand years more, life would go on.
One thousand years, Daddy Pig dreamed.
The Festival would come again. Then and only then would the Fun be had.
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