CHAPTER TWENTY NINE

TWENTY NINE
I took the weekend off to hunt in Alabama
and while I did not feed on Friday, I did locate my
prey that night. I let the anticipation build through
the daylight hours Saturday while resting in a huge
hollow log in a swamp not far from my prospective
victims’ home. A little hunger sometimes goes a long
way in providing a distraction. I allowed myself to
forget about Danny’s demise, the investigation, and
my precarious multimillion dollar investment in
Pretty Lady.

There really is nothing like a minor mass
murder to raise the spirits on a Saturday night. I
slaughtered a pig farmer and his family.
Theirs was one of those squalid industrial
farms with thousands of pigs in a confined area
wading through their own manure, the stink of which
must permeate the air for miles, depending on the
direction of the wind. This “farm” had a huge lagoon
of pig feces. My first thought was to drain but not kill
the family and then drown them in the lagoon. Then I
came up with a better idea.
I put the corpses of the father, mother, and two
teenage sons, all as naked as when they were born,
in with the pigs. First I drained them all right to the
very last drop. It did not matter that. The hungry pigs
would take care of any forensic concerns that usually
belabor me.
The poor pigs, many of whom were suffering horrible physical ailments from living knee deep in their own excrement, were sure to devour pretty much everything of the family’s bodies but the bones. The consumption of human flesh means that the hogs are unfit for the marketplace and will all have to be put out of their miserable existence once the authorities discover the skeletal remains of the famer and his family. The neighbors are sure to be terrified at the violence. On the other hand, folks there are likely breathing a genuine sigh of relief. This was the only stinking pig farm in the vicinity.
There was also a daughter, a little girl of about seven or eight years of age. I found her cowering in her bedroom closet after finishing off the other members of her family. Already sated, I carefully slit her throat and drained a couple pints into a bowl before sucking up the remainder and feeding her to the hogs. I then found an old paint brush and used the bowl of blood to smear messages on the walls throughout the house: “AFF”, “ANIMAL FREEDOM FRONT”, “DEATH TO PIG KILLERS”, “STOP HOG TORTURE”, and combinations and variations of the same. Nobody would be thinking ‘vampire’ on this one.
There is no Animal Freedom Front, of course. There is the Animal Liberation Front but they only destroy property and are nonviolent toward other humans, despite the fact that their designation by the FBI as a terrorist group would indicate otherwise.
Mahatma Gandhi once said that a country’s moral fiber could be determined by observing how citizens treat their animals. If that is so, the moral fiber of the United States of America is up to its knees in pig crap.