High-Wired Bacon
Short Story
As far as amphetamines go, it was business as usual, but it was the addition of the piglet in a tea-cosy running around the common green of the Sacred Heart Club that shot the shit at the fan.
“What the fuck is that?” muttered Coffin Bill. Coffin Bill was the oldest member of the Club. At seventy-eight, Coffin Bill was close to the euthanisation of his membership, and as such had taken five pills, though they had yet to kick in. The general meeting had just wound to a close, and the Saturday afternoon beckoned with chemical lasciviousness.
“Dunno,” said the Doc. The two had been talking about the annexation of Crimea and the aesthetics of their ageing cocks on the terrace. The other sixty-odd members were inside, by the bar. The day was overcast; the perfectly mowed lawns stretched off far into the distance. Fairways cascaded into smooth greens, separated by rows of gum-trees in the roughs, and the occasional sand-trap. A lake could be spied on the horizon; somewhere below, Horatio the crocodile lurked.
Coffin Bill put his hand to his brow and peered further.
“I think it’s a pig,” he remarked.
The Doc had a look as well, his own stomach nestling three pills.
“A piglet, even,” he confirmed.
Coffin Bill examined his arms and completed a few enthusiastic star-jumps, for a man that had had three knee reconstruction surgeries in his lifetime.
“Is it the amps?” he asked the Doc.
The Doc shook his head. “Derek supplied. Should be fine. They shouldn’t have even kicked in yet,” he said.
In the face of their bewildered stares, the piglet began urinating. When it finished, it shook like a dog that had just come out of a bath, but the tea-cosy remained firmly in place. It was a rainbow-patterned tea-cosy — the colours were separated into segments that ringed the piece of fabric. The piglet lowered its wet snout to the grass and started to sniff. It was in no rush. The Doc and Coffin Bill watched as it walked a winding path away from the clubhouse — a colourful blimp on the fresh, green grass.
The Doc and Coffin Bill resumed their conversation, occasionally keeping tabs on the piglet’s progress on the fairway. It wasn’t long before more of the members began spilling outside, having ingested their own allotment of pills and nursing cold glasses of beer.
“What’s that?” someone remarked after coming out onto the terrace.
“A piglet with a tea-cosy,” Coffin Bill announced. “I don’t know where it came from.”
The crowd laughed, and there was calls for bacon sandwiches from the waitstaff, accompanied with requests for tea.
The piglet was slow, despite the supportive comments made by the fans; it was about half an hour before the piglet was within chipping distance of the Hole 1 green. It first dove into the sand-trap alongside it, before sidling up to the flag and having a sniff of the hole. After losing interest, it wandered down to the edge of the lake.
It was around about this time that the amphetamines began firing, first with an ear-popping rise from somewhere down in the gut. An epicentre now established, the shockwaves rang out strong and true, vibrating through the ageing bodies of the members, making legs shake, teeth grind and pupils dilate.
As they rode the crashing waves and entirely forgot about their conversation they’d just been having, Coffin Bill and The Doc remembered about Horatio the crocodile.
“The piglet!” yelled Coffin Bill.
“Horatio!” cried The Doc.
Realisation echoed through the crowd, and as Coffin Bill and The Doc hobbled towards the elevator, the members became galvanised. The ageing legion dashed towards the exits with chemical desperation, knocking over tables, chairs, and any waitstaff standing in the way. They raced down the stairs, or stabbed at the elevator button until it jammed.
With shrieking cries, the Sacred Heart members ran as fast as their amped-up bodies would allow. Hip replacements, knee reconstructions and innumerable health problems were forgotten — their hammering hearts yearned to reach the piglet before Horatio emerged from the murky water and consumed the poor creature, tea-cosy and all.
What a sight it was. Some of the older, less mobile members appropriated the parked golf carts and put the pedal to the metal, racing down the fairway, weaving their way between the running members. Those that tripped were left behind; one’s hamstring snapped suddenly, but he crawled forward irregardless of his injury, like a fanatical soldier having not yet sated his bloodlust.
The Doc and Coffin Bill reached the lake first, and immediately went after the pig, who was in the midst of bathing itself in the shallows. Horatio had yet to reveal himself, but his spectre lurked under every shadow on the water.
But the piglet dodged the snatching hands of the old golfers, squealing as it evaded their grasps. The amps pumping wildly, The Doc and Coffin Bill were soon soaked and covered in reeds, as they made desperate lunges at the wily piglet.
The other members began arriving, heaving at the effort, and ran into the water. One of the golf carts, whose driver had failed to pump the brake pedal, rammed the cart into the water. And what timing! Horatio the crocodile had chosen that moment to make his move, and as he threw his scaly body at the unsuspecting piglet, the cart crashed into him with a sickening crack. The members were thrown out of the cart, and went crashing into the water. Other members, who’d seen the dive, immediately jumped on Horatio, hitting him with canes, crutches, and golf clubs. It wasn’t long before the crocodile succumbed to the beating, floating belly up in the water, and still the members continued their assault.
The others managed to surround the piglet, and, though contained as it was, the pig still managed to slip free and climb onto land again. It ran onto the fairway of Hole 2, daring the members to follow. And follow they did.
Hours later, as the ambulances drove through the eighteen-hole course, they found the many members in various locations. Some had collapsed due to sheer exhaustion, after the amps had worn off, while others had injured themselves in the pursuit and were physically incapable of continuing. The found Coffin Bill buried in the sand-trap at Hole 14, and The Doc under a tree near the green of Hole 17, with bird shit on the crown of his head.
The piglet, despite the striking tea-cosy, was never found.
