The Reign of Porcine Capitalism | Chapter 1

CHAPTER I: CHEAP LABOR AND LIES

Dusk announced the end of yet another exhausting day at Rodolfo’s Farm. Upon the pigs’ backs lay more than mud: the weariness of a labor force that barely managed four hours of sleep a day. After the execution of the “First Eloquent Ones,” the rest of the herd were driven without respite, granted only enough time to gulp down a ration of stale barley between afternoon and nightfall.

“In the past, when they considered us mere animals, it was far better. At least we enjoyed a few comforts before the slaughterhouse. Now that they know we are intelligent—though we conceal our speech—they force us to work.”

That thought had become increasingly common, deeply rooted among the farm’s swine. Discontent was growing. Yet there was no alternative. If they failed to accumulate sufficient points by week’s end, they would not fill their bellies; in the worst cases, they were cast out into the world to fend for themselves.

In these times of overpopulation and prejudice, not even the slaughterhouse was a certain fate. The humans knew the pigs were terrified and burdened them with work, offering nothing in return. Thus Rodolfo’s Farm had instituted a points system: each daily task carried a value, tallied at the week’s close. According to one’s individual score, the portion of food was determined—its quantity, its quality, and even the sort of roof beneath which one would sleep. All rigidly supervised through the logistics of the “Administrators.”

In the straw pavilions—where every soul longed to awaken one day in the Brick Condominiums—Hannibal was restless with fervor. Barely three months had passed since the Points System was established; what for some was blatant injustice proved advantageous for others—or at least a middle ground for ambitious natures such as his own.

To him, an opportunity gleamed like polished gold amid the corn. Since that system had been imposed by human will—designed to force labor and manipulate reward at their convenience—Hannibal had brimmed with anticipation, and not merely with stale barley diluted with sawdust.

The notion that the past had been better was not his; he looked forward.

“Thank you for this opportunity, overseer. I had just been considering how to increase the ambition of the others—and what reward I, a pig so poor, might offer to incite their desire.”

His snout rested upon his forehooves, his gaze lost in the sky, until it snapped sharply toward an elongated shadow darting swiftly beyond the fence of the Straw Pavilions. Silently, he rose and, keeping his distance, began to follow.

“Well, well… these tracks in the mud seem to belong to a rather large cub. Could they be from that thing?”

He advanced with caution, avoiding puddles and slipping behind any structure that might serve as cover. His sole purpose was to trace the trail the figure left behind and confirm whether it was none other than the “Beast of the Gloom.”

Hannibal’s heart pounded when he realized the tracks crossed nearly half the farm. There was no doubt. The creature was heading toward the Main House, where the overseer and his numerous family resided.

His snout nearly brushed the paving stones when he discovered the creature—a wolf of imposing size, clumsy yet agile—standing upright before the servants’ quarters. His astonishment deepened when a girl emerged: old enough not to fear the dark, yet foolish enough not to respect it. Barely four feet eight inches tall, she wore an expression of complete naïveté. A red hood shielded her from the icy wind as she crossed from the rear of the house toward the old, inhospitable rooms the current staff no longer used. She entered swiftly into one of them, and behind her the wolf dropped back to all fours to follow, closing the door with sepulchral silence.

Intrigued, Hannibal rolled deliberately in a puddle, mixing water with dry leaves until he was wholly covered in thick mud that masked his scent. His steps grew light as cotton; he moved at a steady hoof. The night favored him, for the wind blew against his own scent trail, sparing him the wolf’s nose. His sole concern was agility: one snapped twig, however small, would betray him to the predator’s great ears. It required little imagination to foresee his fate if discovered.

He stationed himself beside the door, regulating his breath as though he required no air at all. A faint warm light seeped through the threshold. Within, two voices of opposing timbre could be heard.

“Oh, my little girl! Why will you not believe me?” cried a deep voice laden with feigned disappointment. “You have nothing to fear. It was I who wrote all those love letters that brought you here.”

“B-but… you look very different from how you described yourself. You said you were blond and handsome. Why are you covered in fur? You smell like a wet dog,” the sweet little voice replied.

“Little Red, I have not lied to you—never would I. My love is sincere. From the moment I saw you by the river, washing your chestnut hair, I knew you had stolen my heart.”

The wolf sounded earnest. The young girl, moved by his apparent sorrow, cast him a gentle glance. Behind the door, the pig listened to every sound with a mocking grimace.

What a jest. A wolf in love with a human. What is this fellow after? Why not devour her outright? No one would notice.

“Unfortunately, that day I was not the only one watching you,” the wolf continued. “Among the trees, the Beast of the Gloom stalked you! I was merely passing through and was enchanted, but when I looked up I saw a black mist with red eyes lunging toward you…” His body trembled, simulating terror at his own fabrications.

Little Red’s pale face tightened in deep concern.

“And what happened?” she demanded.

“When I saw you were in danger, my instincts awoke,” he said. “I dropped the firewood I had just cut and ran at full speed toward the Beast of the Gloom. My hands slipped upon a viscous surface; the beast sheltered within that darkness. I grappled with it, but it was terribly strong. It lifted me with ease and hurled me through the air. I struck a tree trunk and, before losing consciousness, the mist before me pronounced: ‘If your heart reaches ecstasy, becoming one with the person you love, you shall return to your original form. But as a despicable wolf, that person will despise you, and you shall suffer forever!’”

The imposing wolf shrank, making himself small at Little Red’s feet. His entire body trembled with studied vulnerability.

“If it is truly me you love, then you have nothing to fear,” she said firmly, stroking the beast at her feet. “You will not suffer forever. Tell me—how can we make your heart reach that ecstasy and become one?”

The wolf took the girl’s small hand and kissed it with predatory devotion.

Behind the door, Hannibal felt a chill at the grotesque realization. The wolf was not merely wild; he was an artist of deceit. Like the pigs, he had evolved. Perhaps other species had as well.

“There is only one way, my sweet girl,” the wolf whispered—and his voice no longer trembled but carried an ancient hunger she, in her innocence, mistook for true love. “We must merge our essences beneath this roof, where none may see us. Only the warmth of your surrender can break the Beast’s curse.”

Blinded by misguided heroism and the childish desire to redeem the wild, Little Red nodded. Hannibal heard fabric brush the wooden floor: the red cloak falling like a pool of blood upon the planks. Then silence was broken by the sound of a heavy body lunging upon one far more fragile.

The wolf’s rhetoric dissolved into intimacy—into a choreography of dominance and submission. Regaining his stature and strength, he no longer asked permission; his “ecstasy” was delivered in violent thrusts. The girl’s sobs, at first confused, were soon muffled beneath the weight of rancid fur and brutal force. Hannibal could hear the old structure creak beneath erratic motion and the wolf’s victorious panting, devouring the girl’s dignity with the same savagery with which he would rend Hannibal’s flesh, should he catch him.

Behind the door, the pig did not so much as blink. His deep, dark eyes shone with twisted logic.

Much better… so this is how “curses” are broken in this world, Hannibal thought with an inward smile. With lies and force. The overseer will be delighted to learn what sort of beast slips into the old quarters with one of his daughters… or perhaps this will serve me for something far greater.

Hannibal needed to hear no more. He began to withdraw, melting once more into shadow and the wind that favored him. Each step was a note of silence upon the mud. He knew a single misstep would make him supper for the “cursed” creature roaring within that room. Yet his mind was no longer on danger, but on the infinite possibilities such a secret afforded him.

He withdrew from the Main House, feeling the mud dry upon his skin like a suit of filthened armor. Reaching once more the edges of the Straw Pavilions, he paused to observe the stars. His eyes gleamed with cold ambition.

He had seen a wolf subdue a human with lies—and that taught him a lesson more valuable than any ration of corn. In the end, the humans’ points system was merely another instrument of control. But blackmail—blackmail, too, was a currency that settled debts.

Enjoy your feast, wolf, Hannibal thought as he settled once more into his corner of straw, feigning the sleep of a submissive beast. Soon you will discover you are not the only predator on this farm. After all, even a poor pig like me requires his own cheap labor…

… "

–Continue reading in its original Spanish language at fictograma.com–