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Quoth the Pig Part 3. Fat as Hell and Not Taking It Anymore

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“Try some of this demon seed!” he screeched.

“That doesn’t prove anything!” I blurted. “It’s Junk Science!”

“You’re a bar owner!” Mel suddenly sprang. “Nobody believes you! You hang out with strippers and whores! Here! This Bud’s for you!!”

Shocked, I watched him mount the polished shrine of my stubby display bottle, the icon of all that is sacred and holy, the touchstone on modern mankind’s mantle. “Stop!” I said. “An image like that could destroy the beverage industry!”

“Exactly!” said Mel. “Then I’m coming after the WORLD!”

“What have I done to deserve this?” I pleaded. “I raised you like a son!”

“What about my sister Sally?” said Mel.

“That’s different,” I said. “She was a tasty tart. You should be the last to complain about sausage!”

Mel rotated on the bottle and fixed me with a piggy glare. Could it happen?—I wondered? Could Mel, with pernicious pig-purpose, single-handedly destroy the world? Take every icon and reduce it to palpitating pig PornHOGraphy? I shuddered. “Mel?” I said. “You do and I’LL TELL EVERYTHING!”

He turned. His gleaming eyes and foaming snout seemed to guard some viral vituperative secret.

“You haven’t seen anything, yet,” he said with a pugnacious hiss.

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Conceived on west coast, born on east coast, returned to northwest spawning grounds. Never far from water.

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