Cool forest tales
The Pie Man
Some things aren't worth the damn money
Two weeks ago, I broke my tailbone when I slipped on a damn banana skin. And yeah, it’s cliche, but how else can I explain why I ended up staying in this old farmhouse in the country? I came here to recover okay. I’m not bloody Shakespeare. Get over it.
Now, I eat my breakfast of Kellogg’s cornflakes with oat milk and Tramadol on the side. Then I wash my dishes and head out for a nice post-breakfast walk. I’m getting messed up on the warm scent of fresh cow shit and fantasising about giving it all up and living without technology when this old farmer appears from nowhere. He is wearing mirror-aviator shades like rural Tom Cruise, chewing a piece of straw and rotating his hips like a Backstreet Boy. I don’t like it at all.
“It’s an exercise for the hips, Lad,” he says. I didn’t ask.
“Oh, yeah?” I say.
There’s no point upsetting the locals. I’ve seen that movie Deliverance.
So we stand in awkward silence, him rotating in the wind and me grimacing.
“Well, I’ll be off then,” I say, turning round to leave.
“There’s a magic pig in that forest, Lad,” he says suddenly, pointing to a forest that wasn’t there a moment ago.
“Oh yeah?” I say, turning back to him.
“Aye, Lad. Legend has it if yer fondle his scrotum, you’ll get rich — and not Curtis Stone rich, either. I’m talking Rowling rich, Lad.”
The old bastard sounds mental, but I’m so damn high on Tramadol, and it’s a stinking hot day, and the idea of a cool forest appeals to me.
Still, I’ve heard horror stories about wild pigs killing, eating and occasionally raping humans in forests around here. But who doesn’t want to get rich? I suppose it comes down to that old question,
What would you do for a billion bucks?
Would you touch a pig’s scrotum and risk possible death, consumption or rape?
I would.
I return to the house and prepare a backpack containing a small bag of sandwiches to eat once I get to the cool forest.
There is one chicken and mayonnaise, one egg and lettuce with chives and one cheese and tomato. I omit the ham since I strategically decide any scent of pork flesh could allow the beast to find me before I find them. I prepare a large flask of cold Stella Artois, which I plan to consume for courage just before the act.
I borrow a pink blouse, pink trousers, and a pink beanie from my neighbour. When the time is right, I intend to act like a female pig to attract the male pig so I can fondle his scrotum. I got the idea from Bugs Bunny.
I set off at the height of midday when I know the magic pig will be sheltering in the forest.
As I enter the trees via a small fence, I tear a hole in the crotch of my pink trousers on the barbed wire. It’s an inauspicious start to my task, but I’m determined to keep going.
The forest gets darker as I penetrate, and a man appears. He is wearing nine-foot trousers even though he is three foot four inches at the most, with a tattoo of a green bicycle on his forehead and giant saucer eyes that roll around like lost marbles.
“And what do thee want in these bushes?” he says.
“I’m looking for the magic pig,” I say. “Have you seen it?”
“Heed my words,” he says. “No good will come of your dangerous expedition. Those with selfish intentions will feel the wrath of their own turbulence. These trees are magical. They are the dancing pubes of the forest goddess, and you, Sir, are like a rogue crab.”
“I’m not a fucking crab,” I say. “I’m an entrepreneur. You know I’ve invented a few things over time. I’m just trying to make a buck like the next man.”
“That’s the problem,” the man says, reaching into his pouch and pulling out a small hooter. “Humans are all trying to make a buck. You are like ice cubes in a watery world.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I ask.
The horrible man honks his hooter, causing me to almost leap out of my skin bag.
“It m — m — m — means — trying to get a changing world to fit in with your tiny desires is like trying to win the lottery, then flushing the money down the toilet and starting again,” he says.
This lunatic’s breath smells like horseradish, and I have no idea what the fuck he is talking about.
“I have no idea what the fuck you are talking about,” I say.
The man makes a deep sigh.
“Oh well, don’t say I never tried, Pepenzibeak,” he says, looking up to the sky and doing a strange dance like Mick Jagger.
“Look. If you get into trouble, honk this,” he says, handing me the hooter.
“Great,” I say. “Will you come and help me?”
“No, I won’t,” he says, “but somebody might. Or you might scare off the pig in question. Would you like a mince pie?”
I’ve always been up for a good mince pie, and I’m determined to at least get something positive out of this exchange.
“Are they homemade?” I ask, biting into the sweet pie. It tastes delicious, though a touch gritty.
“Yes, somebody made them in their home, I suppose,” the man says. “I found it on the road back there.”
I spit pastry and mince all over the ground, and when I look back, the Pie Man has disappeared, leaving me shaken but still undeterred. His laughter echoes all around as if he dissolved back into the forest.
I continue walking and keep hearing twiggy cracks behind me as the forest gets darker and more terrifying. I walk for another half an hour when I remember the words of the Pie Man and feel a little anxious.
My ingenious pink pig outfit is now soaked with sweat and is chafing my inner thighs. What am I doing here? Bugs Bunny would have gotten the job done by now. He would be efficient like Jason Bourne. I put on my pink beanie, get down on all fours, and wait.
After sixteen and a half seconds, I need a break, so I sit on a nice rock instead and get out my sandwiches. The forest begins to feel peaceful as I sink my teeth in and taste tangy cheese and tomato. I could get used to this country life, minus the sweaty pig outfit. Perhaps it’s the Tramadol talking, but I feel like William Wandsworth, that poet who — Ooof.
It feels like someone punched me in the neck. And I feel good all of a sudden — really good —
“I got it, Boss,” comes a young man’s voice nearby.
Everything slows down. I feel adorable now, and, hahaha, and oh, hello. I’m a pig. I’m laughing uncontrollably.
“We got you now, Piggy Boy. Let’s see what you got, eh?” Now there are two men on top of me, pinning me on my back.
One is wearing a red shirt with a name label that says Evil Papa. The other is topless with a fur hat that looks like it has been fashioned from at least eight gerbils.
“Hand me the knife,” one of them says. “You gonna make us rich little piggy”
I realise what’s happening, but I don’t care. I’m in some kind of K-hole.
I look sideways and see my cheese sandwich sitting in the dirt. What a shame that tangy cheese and —
I realise the men think I am the magic pig, and suddenly it’s not funny, but I still can’t stop laughing.
“I’m not the magic pig,” I say through muffled, sweating laughter.
“Holy mother of bacon,” the man says. “It talks too. This really must be a magic piggy.”
He rips my underpants off and grabs my balls hard. Ooof. Then I see the glint of a hunting knife.
“You know you’re only supposed to fondle my scrotum, not cut it off,” I say. I realise I’m not the magic pig, yet I’m offering them advice but — Something comes over me. I reach into my pocket and honk the hooter.
FFFFAAAARRRRRPPPPP
“What in Tarantino?” yells the younger man, dropping the knife. “Piggy got himself a magic honker too.” The two men start yelping and laughing. They find my cold Stella Artois and drink it while holding me down.
“I’m not a pig. Please don’t cut off my sack,” I plead.
“You look like a pretty little talking magic pig to me,” the older man says, picking the knife up again.
I feel the cold blade against my balls, but I can’t do anything. This must be what the Pie Man meant when he —
Thunk
The man with the knife collapses, and the Pie Man is standing behind him, bow in hand.
“You, fuck off,” he says to the other hunter, who runs off without hesitation, leaving his unconscious friend behind.
“Ah, the pursuit of riches,” says the Pie Man, shaking his head. “When will you humans realise it’s like eating your own feet?”
I sit up, feeling a little sick and dizzy from the dart. The pie man pulls it out of my neck.
“Haven’t you heard the great saying?” he says.
“What saying?”
The Pie Man clears his throat, standing straight and holding his hand up to the sky.
“He who dresses like a pig and seeks to touch the scrotum of another pig is neither the pig nor the scrotum but only a pig with a scrotum.”
“I think I’m going to be sick,” I say and immediately throw up all over my pink trousers.
“Are you eating this?” he says, picking my filthy cheese sandwich off the ground.
“I’m not,” I tell him. “It’s all yours. Thanks for saving me.”
“Oh, I didn’t save you, my man,” he says. “You only think so because of the tranquilliser. See — ”
He points down at my crotch. My scrotum is missing, and dark blood is pouring out from between my legs.
My whole body is shaking and going into spasms. I look around, but the Pie Man has gone. The tranquiliser is wearing off, and the pain is kicking in like a lousy pill.
“Where are you, Pie Man? Where are you?” I yell as I bleed out on the forest floor.
Yellow and orange eyes start to shine in the darkness all around. The dark pigs slowly emerge from their forest shadows, sniffing and getting closer.
“Listen — listen to me,” I say. “I’m one of yours. I’m one of your own. I’m a fancy pig like you. Can you please get help? Can you help me, piggies?”
They sniff at my bleeding crotch.
“Piggies?” I whisper. “Please,”
“PIE MAN?? HELP ME!”
The wind blows, and the leaves rattle their leafy rattle.
“You are the Pie Man,” whispers the Forest Goddess.
