When Green Pigs Fly
I’m not a violent person.
I swear I’m not.
Never have been.
And I don’t condone brutality or fighting in any way, shape, or form.
But, good God, these assholes are making it far too easy for me to want to kill something right now.
“So…when are you going to give me your number, Baby Cakes?” Frank says, punctuating the ruckus he started. His tone is both arrogant and assuming, and his body-language reflects that; intertwining his fingers on the table and looking up at me expectantly like he’s some big time politician as his greasy hair sticks flatly to his head like a cap.
“When green pigs fly, motherfucker,” I mutter as I reluctantly write down their orders, the words leaving me before I can stop myself.
The statement just flies out of my mouth before I even realize I said it.
It’s blunt and unforgiving and…so not like me.
And it’s not just the words themselves.
It’s how I say them.
They come out in a little above a whisper but have an unusual edge to them.
I have to force myself to hold back a chuckle as I picture a bunch of Angry Bird green pigs flying around and oinking as they harass the loser and his pathetic posse.
I’m not sure whether he heard me or not, but I sure as hell don’t care if he did.
Matter of fact, I hope he did.
I’m too irritated to put up with his or anyone else’s bullshit right now.
Still, I manage to force another quick, obviously disingenuous smile as I ask, “Anything else?”
I dread the answer, knowing he’ll most likely offer another smart-assed remark about wanting my number or something else of mine.
He gives me a once over again, pausing—presumably for some lame effect—and then lewdly licks his lips.
“That’ll be all,” he finally says, his whiskey eyes still on me. “For now, anyway,” he adds with a wide smirk, flashing his yellowing teeth.
Gross. Me. The. Fuck. Out.
I spin on my heels as quickly as humanly possible with a single goal in mind: putting as much distance between myself and Frank and his dumb group of goblins before I punch each and every one of them into a coma.
With a mega roll of my eyes, I stomp over to the back and clip their orders on the spinner begrudgingly, wishing like hell I was somewhere else.
The last thing I need right now is to have my gears ground by some loud-mouthed, patronizing, misogynistic dick-head.
My arms and legs tremble with the combined effect of jitters from my constant lack of sleep and my sheer irritation with the group of buffoons shouting at the other end of the diner.
Inhale, exhale, I tell myself. I take deep breaths, trying desperately to calm down even as I feel my anger rising.
Frank is annoying as shit; a more irritating, ridiculous version of Jar Jar Binks, if that’s even possible, and any woman—or sane man, for that matter—would find his disgusting, sexist antics revolting at best.
It’s a wonder Gus, Clover’s owner, hasn’t banned him yet, especially after all the sexual harassment complaints he’s gotten about Frank and all the waitresses who’ve quit because of the asshat.
Still…getting this worked up over anything is strangely out of character for me. I mean, he’s like this with pretty much every waitress, including Marcie, so I know it’s not personal. I shouldn’t be this mad. It’s not the first time he’s thrown ridiculous comments my way or gotten on my nerves—
The sound of shattering glass rips through the entire diner out of nowhere, loud and sudden, the startling noise catapulting me out of my thoughts and making me jump.
I spin around to see where the commotion is coming from, figuring Frank or one of his goons just broke a beer bottle or two in their rowdy stupor.
But what I see instead…paralyzes me.
I stand there, unable to move as my eyes struggle to stay inside their sockets.
Oh. My. Fucking. God.
A burst of oinks, snorts, and sharp squeals fill the diner, the sounds unmistakable.
Holy sea biscuits and dandelions…
No. Nuh uh!
This is…Oh, my God…There’s just no way in hell…This can’t be real. Not in a million fucking years.
It just cannot. Be. Real.
My brain turns to mush, my thoughts discombobulated, crashing into each other.
I shake my head against the image in front of me; my mind, my body, my entire being swamped in denial.
My eyes tell me that seven, seven large, green pigs just crashed through the diner’s windows in broad daylight.
With white wings.
They continue to squeal and oink loudly and move to hover around Frank’s booth, flapping their wings frantically and knocking around glasses and bottles and silverware.
The clattering of metal forks and spoons falling against the floor clashes with the collective chaos, and that seems to aggravate the pigs even more.
I continue to watch, horrified as the screams and yells of other customers join the ruckus, their frantic voices ringing sharply in my ears.
Frank’s voice bursts loudly across the room again, but this time, its usually obnoxious and arrogant tone is drenched in fear and mortification. My eyes dart to him impulsively, and my stomach almost doubles over at what I see:
One of the pigs has two bloody fingers in its mouth.
He’s screaming hysterically, holding his hemorrhaging hand with the other as he tries in vain to dodge the angry pig that’s relentlessly charging at him. All his friends topple and fall over themselves and each other as the rest of the ferocious pigs continue to attack them as well.
A loud blast comes through abruptly amid all the chaos, the blaring sound forcing my palms over my ears on reflex. Major blood splatter follows, and one of the pigs falls to the ground squealing frantically as red bubbles foam out of its mouth, helplessly gurgling on its own blood.
Heart pounding, my head whips around to see Gus right beside me, holding a shotgun in his hands as he fires again and again, sounding off multiple shots, one right after the other, until all seven pigs are sprawled on the floor, bleeding out onto the ground in large, messy puddles of blood.
All I can do is stand there with my hands covering my ears, bewildered and horrified, trying with everything in me to not pass out as I watch everything unfold before my very eyes.
As I watch seven green pigs lay dead on the ground, their viscous, bubbly blood spreading further over the wooden floor and slipping between the cracks of the planks.
The same green pigs that had flown around in the diner and violently harassed Frank Poshner and his friends:
Just as I had imagined less than a minute ago.