Roger Maxson - Pigs In Paradise

After Boris had been proclaimed Lord and Savior, an assessment was taken of the number lost by Joseph, the elderly 12-year-old, 900-pound boar. At 12 years and 900 pounds he never left the barn. Seven among them, seven of their own, had been lost in the raid, two sheep, two goats, including Billy St Cyr, the Angora goat, and three lambs, one of whom was Boo, Praline’s only lamb.

Molly consoled Praline. They huddled together in the barn with their noses pressed against the railing of a stall. On the other side of the railing, Mel told Praline to believe and to accept Boris as her Savior, and that one day she would again be reunited with her dear little Boo.

“Really?” She said, hopefully.

“Praline,” Molly said.

“As God is my witness,” Mel assured her.

* * *

“It’s the cost of doing business,” Juan Perelman said the next day. “It’s the price we pay for having a farm at the edge of civilization.” He stood against the fence in the road with the three farm laborers as they assessed the damage done from the night before. “How many did we lose?”

“Six, I believe,” said the Thai.”

“Well, okay. It could have been much worse. What did we lose?”

“By last count two sheep, two goats, and two lambs. One of the goats, I’m afraid, was the Angora ram.”

“Well, fuck, at least we got one shearing this year and the mohair to prove it.”

“He’d been sick lately from intestinal parasites.”

“Good,” Perelman said. “I hope he burns their asses.”

The men laughed.

“I forgot it was Eid al-Fitr. I get them mixed up and, well, I should have known. It’s what comes after Ramadan, whenever that is. It changes every year. Next year I hope one of you will remember, so we’ll be prepared for what’s coming.”

“Here comes trouble,” said the Chinese gentleman.

“Oh, do you know him?” asked the Taoist, rhetorically.

“Never saw him before in my life,” replied his countryman.

An Egyptian took his life into his hands when he crossed the border onto Israeli soil and approached Perelman and the laborers. He wore colorful blue and purple robes that blew in the wind and headdress. His identity was hidden by a scarf, and the Egyptian spoke on the condition of anonymity. “These Jews have in their possession a monster, a red djinn.” He waved his hands and pointed to that part of the moshav that bordered Egypt. “It was on this land, in this place, that these Jews set loose an evil spirit against my brothers, which harms, insults, offends all Muslims, and is an abomination to Allah.” Mel walked along the fence of that evil moshav to bear witness to the conversation, and to share with the others as needed later. The laborers looked to Juan Perelman, who said nothing. As the Egyptian went on, Perelman continued to listen.

“Praise Allah in all his glorious wisdom that no Muslim brother was contaminated by the filthy infidel swine. We only collect donations to the poor to ensure that they, too, can have a holiday meal and participate in the celebration of Sadaqah al-Fitr, the charity of fast-breaking.”

“I am these Jews. It is not our place to donate animals to dress your table or to feed the poor.”

“This place has been desecrated and made unholy,” said the shepherd. “The Jews have a compost pile full of pig shit that they will spread over this land as fertilizer, but it will bring death and destruction and nothing good shall ever come of it. This land under our feet is no longer worthy for my camel to piss on.” He turned toward the border and threw his hands up, tossing the purple and blue robe sleeves over his shoulders.

“Now we know what it takes to keep them from our land, pig shit, lots and lots of pig shit.”

No sooner had the good shepherd and concerned citizen crossed back into Egypt than he was found out by his neighbors, the faithful. The followers of the all-merciful and just God picked up stones and stoned him to death before he reached his village, which proved regardless of conditions of anonymity, the all-knowing, omniscient God, knows all.

“One day they may be our ruin,” Perelman said, “but today we are his.”

“The correct number of losses I’m afraid is seven,” said the Thai laborer. “We missed the Luzein lamb.”

“The Luzein,” Perelman said, “shit, that’s too bad.”

Standing outside the fence, Perelman and the laborers watched as Praline, chased after the Border Leicester twin lambs, running between them, wanting one of them to nurse from her.

Regardless of what the Jew had said, and the Bedouin dead, the Muslims were still not satisfied, not enough blood had yet spilled. Justice was not theirs. The injustice of it all still burned. The toll of it all still went unanswered. No calls went out for afternoon prayers as a lull hung over the village and a pall over the farm. Mel, grazing in the pasture, raised his head. His ears twitching, he sensed something adrift. Something was going to crack the silence and reverberate, spilling over onto the farm, but what he didn’t yet know. He smelled something brewing in the air, though, and it blew over the moshav from the Egyptian village.

Not willing to leave anything to chance and miss an opportunity, Mel went to the barn to find the Messiah, snorting grain in a trough. While many accepted Boris as their savior, others remained skeptical, and with the Jew bird parrot still roosting above them in the rafters, and the Large White still baptizing under the sun at the pond, Mel was determined to do whatever necessary to ensure his rightful position among the animals, all of them.

Mel sensed the silence and felt the rumblings coming from the village. In the barn, he encouraged Boris to go out and parade about the farm among his throngs of faithful followers.

“On such a day as this, it is imperative that you, as the Messiah, and you who wish to remain the Messiah, should, therefore, want to continue your reign as the Messiah by going out of doors among the faithful and prance princely about for they need the pageantry. Hurry, they’re waiting.” Mel knew the Muslims would surely enjoy the spectacle just as Boris would surely enjoy the parade.

Perched on a hill, the merrymakers licked their wounds. Still offended, not yet revenged for the attack against them as they had tried to gather meat for the poor, and their table, which disrupted the natural order of things. This was an uncharitable thing to do, for they were right to feed the poor. It was the charitable thing to have done. Therefore, it was now their turn to return the deed and answer the call, repair the toll, put upon them as a people, as the law dictated, and as Allah’s will would be done. The Muslims knew the attack against them had been led by the great Satan, the red djinn of the desert. Vengeance would be theirs.

Boris waded through his subjects as they bathed in the sun alongside the pond, and grazed in the pasture, and along the tiered slopes that led to the smaller olive trees, where mostly goats grazed. Mel saw the shoulder-held rocket launcher pulled from a corrugated cardboard box labeled “made in China.” Two men wrestled for the honor, until another man, an Alpha male of the Muslim world, a cleric, at the edge of the Muslim village, wrestled the rocket launcher from them. He placed it against his shoulder, adjusted the sights, took aim, and fired. The percussion spooked and scattered the animals to all corners of the farm as the fowl flew through the trees and pigs scurried about. The cleric’s precision single rocket scored a direct hit against Bruce, blowing him to pieces as flesh, blood and bone fell from the sky like hail over the pasture. A large section of carcass landed in a heap, and a solid piece of the steer’s rib cage fell near the road, not far from where Bruce had stood only a moment before.