Once upon a fairytale,
back when humans burst open out of pregnant pods and blossoming buds,
there lived three filthy pigs.
Far away from the wilderness,
deep inside the rotting marrows
of a civilisation long forgotten,
the pigs had built towering skyscrapers
of stinking piles of untreated sewage;
they called it a safe haven.
Every time another species would cross paths,
the three filthy pigs,
bathed in fresh garbage,
would squeal and chomp,
their crooked tails trailing like leaking punctuation from a badly written sentence.
The disgust for their filth,
they told themselves,
were the ribs respect was made of.
They called it the fear of the fraternity.
One day, instead of falling off trees,
the humans started walking the ground.
They had begun learning things
the pigs could not possibly make sense of.
Like taking a bath.
And cooking food before eating them whole.
A while later,
a man crossed paths with the three filthy pigs.
The pigs squealed and chomped,
their tails curled in the air,
their snouts breathing rage and contempt.
The man stood still, as if they were nothing.
And with a punch aimed at their obese underbellies,
he drove his fist through the idea of them.
Later that night,
as they were served for dinner,
cleaned first, cooked later,
their ribs separated from their chops,
the afterlives of the three filthy pigs learned what their lives could not be humbled into:
don’t go to war with what you know nothing of.
