It's almost over, but this is going to hurt a little: Piggleyland

 

     The hangovers of the two previous days were nothing compared to the hangover I awoke with the following morning. The walls of my room were visibly pulsing. My eyes were not eyes but hot red salted boiled eggs. My head was enormous and soft, I had a thin brittle candy skull, my tongue was a big old wool sock. My hands shook wildly as I poured a bag of colorful candy-covered chocolates into a cup of coffee. The multicolored shells melted and turned the coffee at first a horrifying shade of nuclear olive green, but it only stayed green for a moment. Once the chocolate centers melted it went dark brown. Well, maybe a little green. I choked it down, and took another shower to wash off the fumes of whiskey, dragged a razor around on my face.

      Looked at the clock, it was almost 8 AM, and Sam Handwich was knocking at the door. I threw on a pair of striped shorts,  a black shirt with a repeating pattern of small bird skulls, and my sandals and reeled out of the door to drive him to the Convention/Fiesta for breakfast and the days’ activities.

     Breakfast was gruesome, until I managed to get a waiter to bring me a bloody Mary. That backed the hangover off by a couple of degrees, and I was able to eat a little of an omelet and some bacon, and soon was conversing with Mac Asquith and Sam Handwich in a fairly realistic manner, like a really dumb and twitchy version of myself.

 

     As the plates were cleared from the pies, The Chairman of the Taxi-to-Trucking Transportation Industry Convention/Fiesta! Stepped to his podium and cleared his throat, “The board of the Taxi-to-Trucking Transportation Industry Convention/Fiesta! is pleased to announce this years’ amazing super special Convention surprise: we’re taking all of you luuucky truck, taxi courier and limo executives you for an all-expense-paid trip to Piggleyland for a day of  rides, food and pork-flavored fun! Please file to the front door, where buses wait to ferry you over through the magical gates of Piggleyland!”

     The room erupted in applause. Sam Handwich and Mac Asquith leapt to their feet and high-fived each other, then both held up a hand for me to slap. I looked at them for a couple beats and then smacked their hands limply. There was no escape. Sam and Mac frogmarched me out to the bus, and I was wedged into a seat between two sweaty trucking executives comparing notes on truck-stop prostitutes.

 

     The front gates of Piggleyland are giant fiberglass pork ribs, five stories tall, with flowing barbeque sauce fountains, surmounted by a neon sign screaming: “The American Pork Consortium of America Welcomes Americans to Piggleyland!”  The buses roared through and we were ejected into a simulated town square, with cottagey shoppes and plastic Tudor-style houses: Glazed Hamlet, the setting for the cannibalistic antics of Li’l Saucy Jess, the clever Pork Chopper and his dramatic friend Ham Raisingravy, the overripe Miss Sucklin’ Lacyhocks, stolid Sergeant Bacon, the snooty Madame and Monsieur Loin D’Porc, the feisty Rindy Scrapple, and the other minor characters.

     As I stood there, a guy dressed as Ham Raisingravy, in striped turtleneck with a beret, raced past with a meat cleaver, in hot pursuit of Li’l Saucy Jess, yelling, “Come back here, you succulent little sow! I have a couple of lonely eggs that need an escort!”

     Sergeant Bacon, in his bright blue Keystone Kop uniform, appeared at the door of the Porky Pokey and roared, “Raisingravy, ye scalawag, I’ll nowt have ye disturbin’ the porcine peace of Glazed Hamlet! Put doon that meat cleaver or I’ll make a haggis of ye!” He ran after Ham Raisingravy,  surprisingly fast considering that the pig costume, with police accoutrements, had to weigh 90 pounds. The three of them ran around and through our group of hundreds of leaders of the transportation industry, a spectacle that some of our group found hilarious.

 

     Everyone was issued an all-inclusive pass, cunningly devised to resemble a strip of bacon, a strap-on pig snout and a curly clip-on tail, and we joined the throngs of people already queuing up for the various attractions.

     Sam Handwich and Mac Asquith insisted on taking me on some of the rides. I was hoisted in a bucket and hurled into a trough of potato peelings and corn cobs, I had a long wallow in a sty full of mud, I was cram-stuffed cheek-by-jowl with two hundred other snouted tourists into a truck and driven down a simulated bumpy road to a slaughterhouse where I was hung by my feet and tickled mercilessly with rubber knives, I was run on conveyor belts through a giant sausage-making machine where I was smooshed together with various scraps of meat and spices and extruded into a casing, I was tossed repeatedly in a frying pan, I was wrapped in a pancake and served with maple syrup to be eaten by a giant laughing robot pig.  Afterwards, Sam and Mac dragged me to a bar called the Down a Snoutful where I diligently put away a pitcher of mint juleps. It was difficult to drink with the snout on, until I asked the pig waitress for a straw.

     “Fang!” said Sam suddenly, causing me to spill a little mint julep on my shirt, “you’re too quiet for a man living the American dream! You’re not still upset that your wife is bangin’ her boss, are you? Come on!”

     “So his wife is banging her boss? What’s he care? He’s banging McWainscoting, innie?” said Mac Asquith.

     “I did not bang McWainscoting. I have always been true to Vampirella.” I said, blearily.

     “Vampirella? What the hell is that?” said Asquith.

     “That’s his wife’s name. She’s from Transylvania,” said Sam Handwich, “but recently she’s been sucking more than just the blood of the innocents...”

     “Fucking Hell, Sam…”

     “…She’s also been sucking some other guy’s cock!” he finished tediously.

     MacAsquith almost blew his strap-on snout off with mirth. I quashed the urge to throttle them only with difficulty, I just let it go by, and smoldered drunkenly, grinding my teeth. Five and a half hours until our flight out.

     Sam stood up, fumbled in his pocket, left some cash and an insulting tip on the table for the pig-costumed waitress, and said, “Come on, Fang, we’ll take care of you. I know just what you need.”

 

     He and Mac dragged me down the main street of Glazed Hamlet, then down a darkened service alley beside a souvenir shop selling Piggleyland t-shirts and baseball caps and cutlery. At the end of the alley was a narrow door. Mac knocked and a low mutter came from inside, I couldn’t hear what the question was, but Mac replied, “Three for the blue plate!”

     The door swung open and we filed into the dark opening. There was a heavy smell of baconfat overlaid with floral overtones. A squat Warthog in a purple zoot suit pulled aside a curtain, and we found ourselves in a frilly sitting room with overstuffed velvet chairs, fat gold cherubs and lacy lampshades. A curving staircase descended from rooms above, and as I watched, one of the doors upstairs opened and I knew what was coming.

   Miss Sucklin’ Laceyhocks descended the stairs slowly, batting long, thick eyelashes coquettishly. Her snout wiggled with interest above an insouciantly slack wet lipsticked lower lip. She had red high-heel cloven hooves with the eponymous lace cuffs at the hock, and was displaying large naked hams caught in fishnet stockings, her fourteen breasts provocatively waggled in a rainbow of seven see-through sets of brassieres above a voluminous pair of black lace panties. Sam and Mac were speechless with delight.

   “Howdy, boys,” she drawled, “wanna pork?”

   “Let’s talk terms first,” said the porcine pimp, “at corporate rates, we got a $9500 minimum, that pays for a straight hour B.Y.E.”

     “B.Y.E?” whispered Sam to Mac.

     “Barn Yard Experience,” explicated Mac, salivating visibly.

     “OO!” squealed Miss Sucklin’ Laceyhocks, “For an extra $550, you can hogtie me! And that’s just one of the ala carte options on my menu…Wheeee-Onk! My loins are getting soo hot and juicy! Which one of you big hungry mans wants the first taste?”

     Sam and Mac both gave me a shove, and I drunkenly reeled forward. She pulled a pin from her coiffed bun of pink hair and shook it down around her shoulders. She snorted and reached for me. I was transfixed by the quality of the costume. The ample visible pink flesh didn’t look like plastic and fake fur at all, like the costumes of the Security Warthogs and the entertainers back in Glazed Hamlet’s town square. She smelled like a pan full of pork chops in a peony garden. Her eyes were large and moist, and I could see the pupils contract as she looked me up and down.

     “You have got to be kidding me.” I said weakly. I ducked her grasp, straightarmed Mac Asquith aside and ran directly for the door. There was a chain lock and a deadbolt and a hook latch and a bolt and the doorknob, which gave Sam time to say, “Oh, come back, Fang, this is a very exclusive new Piggleyland luxury service that Mac has facilitated for us. It’s an amazing sex opportunity for someone at your level of management…” I was through the door and running down the alley.

     I don’t think I’ve ever been so horrified in my life.

 

     I kept running until I came out to the town square, where I had to break stride so as to avoid the notice of several large Security Warthogs standing at a stall drinking Pigmilkshakes.

     I showed my bacon pass to a pig taking tickets for a kiddie ride called Madame D’Porcs’ Tea and Crumpet Waltz, where I sat in a teacup and was spun past various precious scenes of Madame and Monsieur Loin D’Porc and their high society pig tea party and ballroom waltz. It was very peaceful for the first two thirds of the ride, robot pigs in tuxedos and hoop skirts waltzing in a mirrored ballroom, playing croquet and badminton in a simulated English country garden, eating watercress and cucumber sandwiches and pouring tea, then abruptly the anarchic Li’l Saucy Jess sets the house afire, pours a punchbowl of lemonade over Monsieur Loin D’Porc’s  head, pelts the guests with cupcakes, and finally captures Madame D’Porc with a lasso. The final scene reenacted the beheading of Marie Antoinette with Madame D’Porc in the unfortunate role, and Pork Chopper as the laughing executioner.

     I rode through four times, altogether, with my eyes closed much of the time, holding my head like a shiny round black bomb with a lit fuse. I just kept waving my bacon pass at the ticket pig when I got to the end, and he’d send me around again.

     After the ride, I bought another mint julep with my dwindling cash supply and sat drinking it and thinking about Vampirella at a bench in the Glazed Hamlet town square, watching the throngs of snouted people wandering around eating pork rinds, watching the corny staged escapades of the costumed performers.

 

     Eventually Sam and Mac emerged from the crowd, looking somewhat rumpled and uncharacteristically stunned. Sam spotted me and they came over. They didn’t say anything at first, just stood there clearing their throats and adjusting their ties.

     “Hey!” I said, “sorry, but I have to say that sex pig costume just was a thousand steps too far over on the weird side for me.”

     “It’s not exactly a costume, it’s more like a… new development.” said Sam.

     “Yeah…Miss Sucklin’s Hoggystyle Bordello is an exclusive new development for premium corporate sponsors only,”” said Mac, “it’s an erotic luxury experience reserved for only the most discriminating tastes,” he said accusatorily if queasily, and wiped his forehead.

     Sam was looking at his watch, “Mac, it’s time for our reservation at the Piggleyland BBQ Pit. Come along, Fang, dinners’ on us, although your performance was most disappointing for midlevel management. I expect you to apply yourself more rigorously to these team-building exercises in the future.” Sam was mad at me.

     We were seated at the Piggleyland BBQ Pit in a private room in the back with silver and linen on the table and a warthog dressed as a waiter started hauling in big plates full of ribs, chops, loin, sausages, hocks, tripe, you name it. Just as he removed the cover on the final platter I recognised him as being the pimp warthog from Miss Sucklin’s Hoggystyle Bordello, and then I saw what appeared to be the cooked head of Miss Sucklin’ Laceyhocks on the platter, an apple jammed in her mouth. I jumped up.

     “Jesus, that’s disturbing.” I said.

     “It’s an erotic luxury experience reserved for only the most discriminating tastes,” Mac said again, and forked in a forkful of chop.

     Sam was looking kind of doubtfully at a rib, “Help yourself, Fang, you’ll rarely taste pork this fresh. It’s a new development,” he took a bite and looked at me expectantly.

     I pushed my plate away. Mac snorted, in his snout, “Grow up, kid. She was begging us to eat her the whole time we were going round the barnyard. We paid extra to eat her, and let me tell you, it really turned her on to know that we were going to eat her after we fucked her. She was totally hot to be eaten, wasn’t she,  Sam?”

     “Yes, very enthusiastic. Great customer service,” said Sam, chewing thoughtfully, “I can’t decide if she tasted better raw,” he wasn’t talking to me anymore.

     I silently watched them eat their fill and waited for the meal to end. They each took a big greasy Hoggie Bag with them when they left.

 

     Finally, the time had come to close out the Conference/Fiesta, get our luggage together and get to the airport. We rode the bus back to the Ice Cream Indulgences! Hotel and Resort, then Sam and I said our goodbyes to Hugo and Mac and Morvis and other assorted executives. I broke down the folding table of rates and services and threw all of it out in a dumpster in the parking lot instead of packing it up, to save time. Pam McWainscoting blew me a kiss from across the Carved Fudge Forest Conference Room as I took Sam’s arm to lead him out the door so that we could make our flights on time.

   Back at Alligator Al’s Central Florida Jungle Fun Compound I drained the remaining Irish Whiskey from the bottle, changed into a new shirt and my drip-dried shorts from the previous day and threw all my other stuff into my suitcase quickly and slammed out of the damp room and sat outside Sam’s Deluxe Bridal Cabana tapping my fingers and revving the engine until he emerged driving his seven bags of luggage. I crammed them in the trunk and drove with all possible speed to the airport. It seemed like weeks since I’d seen my beautiful children, and what the hell was up with Vampirella, and I was just frantic to escape Orlando.

     Sam was unusually quiet on the drive, mercifully. I knew he was seething mad at me because of the way I‘d let him down in front of Mac Asquith. I knew there’d be repercussions, and they started as soon as we reached the airport. As I pulled up to the terminal, Sam called back to Retro Cab and said, “Moe! Handwich here! Cancel the cab from the airport for Fang tonight. He’s going on a different plane, and will have to coordinate with you on his new arrival time later. What? No, not Thursday, Today.  No, cancel tonight’s pick up…”

     In classic passive-aggressive retaliation for my job performance, Sam had, at the last minute, apparently switched me onto a flight 734, with connecting flights in Boston and Bangor, Maine along the way, which saved Sam money on the airfare and sucked for me.

     “Sam,” I interjected, while he still had Moe on the phone, “you gotta have someone stop by my house to let my wife know I’ve been delayed, then, at least? I’ve been trying to call her, but I can’t get through on the phone.”

     He put his hand lightly over the receiver and said sweetly to me, “She probably just doesn’t want to answer the phone with her mouth full, Fang. -Moe! Take a cab over to Fang’s, tell his wife he’ll be later today. I’m sure she’ll appreciate the warning. No, not Tuesday, today. Sunday. No, not someday, today, OK? OK? OK? Are you there? What’s that gurgling sound? You got a communiconnectivity problem?”

     Moe had a schnapps problem, more likely.

     “Regardless of when your flight gets in tonight, Fang, I’ve pencilled you in for a meeting at 11AM tomorrow morning, Fang, a debriefing, some oversight, hindsight, foresight, perspectives from other directions like above and below, on your application of managerial modalities as postpercieved at the Conference/Fiesta, maybe a pop job performance review, too.”

     I was in trouble, if I cared, which I wouldn’t until other things were off my mind. He didn’t even say goodbye, just drove off on his luggage to check in. So I was going to be home later than I anticipated, but at least I was rid of Sam Handwich until I was back in Ann Arbor. Sam himself was still taking the first class nonstop flight, of course.

     After I turned in the rental car, my check-in at the airport went mercifully quickly, as most of the Homeland Security Guards were out by the cab stand, stomping on geckos and laughing.

     I was wedged in the economy section on the plane when I realized that I still had the pistol in the pocket of my shorts. The Homeland Security Guard at the metal detector in the airport had insisted on confiscating a promotional staple remover from me, but he’d overlooked the gun. I don’t know why I had drunkenly picked the gun up in the first place; I didn’t want it at all. I considered trying to ditch it in the lavatory, but I decided that I’d better just wait and lose it after the flight.

     Peacefully jammed between a kid in the aisle seat with earphones and a pale guy who was already sleeping in the windowseat, soon after the plane bounced off the runway and became airborne,  I fell into a drunken doze, and had a bad dream.

 

     I saw myself as if from above, sleeping twitchily in the airplane. My clothes were rumpled, my shock of hair looked like I’d just driven two hundred hot miles in a convertible, my sideburns were uneven, my skin was gray from days of abuse. As I watched myself, my hair grew shorter, and neater, like my head was sucking it back in. The sideburns receded by 2.5 inches. My pants grew longer and turned into a neatly pressed pair of blue trousers, my patterned shirt faded to white and a red tie unfurled below my chin, the flesh on my face became pinker, but also softer, like I’d just gained 40 pounds or so. My combat boots turned into neat oxford shoes, and I grew a watch on my left wrist and a blue suitjacket. I had transformed into a completely ordinary looking suitboy. Then, horribly, the eyes of this false Fang opened, and he was looking right at me.

     “I need to call an important business contact! Can I get a fax line around here?!” said the doppleganger, “What are you, some kind of teenager? What the hell do you think you’re playing at? What are you, a pizza delivery boy? A video store clerk? You’re thirty-seven years old. You need to make more important business contacts. Network, motherfucker! Get your resume out there! Get a better job, get a second job, get three jobs if that’s what it takes! You’re pathetic. You’ve got tremendous opportunities in the business world awaiting you, if you can just bring yourself  to quit pretending that there’s other things more important than making money. I need to call a important business contact RIGHT NOW.”  a cellphone appeared in his hand, he pushed buttons, but it didn’t work on the plane. “Also, you slob, you waste,  you make me sick, the way you whine about your wife being unfaithful. It’s pathetic. Firstly, why should she be faithful to a losing slob slacker like you when she could use her assets to secure a more lucrative meal ticket, and B. who cares about their wife sleeping around anyway? It keeps her out of your hair, so you can make more important business calls to important business contacts! If it bothers you, get a  little something on the side yourself- maybe with an important business contact! Or you get a different wife. Divorce, also a great option. Whatever. It’s not pertinent to what you need to be doing. Making money. I’d talk to you more about this, but I have to call an important business contact, and my cellphone doesn’t work on the plane, so I have to jump out here and try to find a phone booth,” he squeezed past the kid with earphones and walked to the emergency exit, pulled the handle on the door and the door shot outwards, pulling him along with it. There was an enormous roaring wind and screaming from the passengers on all sides of me.

     I felt relieved. That guy was really tedious.