Lunchtime At The Vale Of Tears
"I don't understand it," muttered Mrs Upshott. "The pork should be
cooked." Nonetheless, the pig wailed like a child when Mr Upshott sawed
the carving knife into it, its blackened little eyeballs bulging from its
sooty face. The roasted apple hissed in the corner it splattered over when
the pig spat it out, boiling saliva spread over the parquet in thick ropes.
"I am a very hungry man," Mr Upshott sternly told the pig, "and you are
spoiling my lunch."
Its trotters, bound securely and decorated with little paper cuffs,
twitched in agonised fear.
Mr Upshott studied the pig sourly. He had, after all, been out since dawn,
herding the cows, and punching them in their eyesockets with his freakishly
large knuckles when they refused to gather into the Esther Williams-like
aesthetic formations he prized in his cattle. His private shed in the back
of the garden fairly bloomed with the Livestock Formal Dance rosettes he
had won at the Vale Market over the last twenty-five years. He worked
hard, and expected nothing more than a cooked lunch for his slightly
strange travails.
Mr Upshott peered at the pig who would steal his lunchtime peace. And
jerked upright.
"Marilyn!"
Mrs Upshott's given name was not, of course, Marilyn.
"Madam," Mr Upshott ground out in rare fury, "you have sought to roast my
Small Wife."
"Bitch deserved it," snorted Mrs Upshott, busying herself by the stove.
"I've seen you buried to the scrote in the little whore over by the
cesspits where you thought no-one could see."
Over the blazing hob, she was carefully heating a tin buttplug shaped like
a warthog.
Out in the field, all of the cows were dead. The locals said that space
aliens did it in the night, because humans would certainly not perpetrate
such horrors on the arses of innocent cattle.
The Widow Upshott, alone in the night with her batteries, knew better, and
giggled like a schoolgirl.
-- W
cooked." Nonetheless, the pig wailed like a child when Mr Upshott sawed
the carving knife into it, its blackened little eyeballs bulging from its
sooty face. The roasted apple hissed in the corner it splattered over when
the pig spat it out, boiling saliva spread over the parquet in thick ropes.
"I am a very hungry man," Mr Upshott sternly told the pig, "and you are
spoiling my lunch."
Its trotters, bound securely and decorated with little paper cuffs,
twitched in agonised fear.
Mr Upshott studied the pig sourly. He had, after all, been out since dawn,
herding the cows, and punching them in their eyesockets with his freakishly
large knuckles when they refused to gather into the Esther Williams-like
aesthetic formations he prized in his cattle. His private shed in the back
of the garden fairly bloomed with the Livestock Formal Dance rosettes he
had won at the Vale Market over the last twenty-five years. He worked
hard, and expected nothing more than a cooked lunch for his slightly
strange travails.
Mr Upshott peered at the pig who would steal his lunchtime peace. And
jerked upright.
"Marilyn!"
Mrs Upshott's given name was not, of course, Marilyn.
"Madam," Mr Upshott ground out in rare fury, "you have sought to roast my
Small Wife."
"Bitch deserved it," snorted Mrs Upshott, busying herself by the stove.
"I've seen you buried to the scrote in the little whore over by the
cesspits where you thought no-one could see."
Over the blazing hob, she was carefully heating a tin buttplug shaped like
a warthog.
Out in the field, all of the cows were dead. The locals said that space
aliens did it in the night, because humans would certainly not perpetrate
such horrors on the arses of innocent cattle.
The Widow Upshott, alone in the night with her batteries, knew better, and
giggled like a schoolgirl.
-- W