I was fourteen when I met Pignaceous. I remember that because it was the day after I got my period. Mama says, “Darlene, you a woman now. Those boys at school are gon’ smell that on you so you best keep those legs closed, missy!
It was a humid day, that day I met the pig, and I was walking home from school. Now, on these walks home, I always got to pass the bus depot.
Lots of unsavory characters loitered outside, flicking ashes and wagging their tongues at me; but on this one day in particular, this humid day, a pig-man stepped away from all those derelicts and offered up his hankie so that I may mop my sweaty brow.
I thanked him. He tipped his hat to me. Turns out Pignaceous, that was the name he gave me, was a sheriff over in a Hawaiian town. Said that damn town got drowned in piping hot lava, all the way from the post office right down to the tobacco store.
Next thing I know, Pignaceous is walking home with me.
Next thing I know after that, Pignaceous is eating supper with my folks and me.
And next thing I know after all that, I’m waking up to find Pignaceous eating my folks for breakfast.
Now, I don’t mind so much, not like you’d think. See, Ma – well, she been known to swat my behind with a wooden spoon. ‘Specially now that Mother Nature made me into a Woman. She’s just certain I’m gon’ go and get myself knocked up by some boy on the AV squad, even though I been telling her time after time that those boys don’t look at anything that don’t got a hard drive and a CRT glare.
And see, Pa – well, he been known to get good and drunk off the sauce, real rot-gut brandy, and leave his boot prints on my behind from time to time.
‘Specially if I be forgettin’ to pack his pipe before he gets home from work.
So see, I don’t mind so much to see that fuckin’ pig tearing away the flesh from their bones like us country folk eatin’ barbeque ribs on the Fourth.
Now, Pignaceous, he DOES mind. He’s worried I’m gon’ turn him in, ruin his hearty morning eats. But I say to him, “Pig, you listen here. I fuckin’ hate my folks. You want to ravage their flesh? Be my guest. Can I get you the Ketchup?”
This photo captures the creepiness that can only be found in a vintage Sheriff Pig. Give him your change before he serves you up at the next Hawaiian- style Person Roast.
Who doesn’t enjoy a nice luau?