Читать книгу Pigs In Paradise - Roger Maxson - Страница 20

Regardless of what the Jew had said, and the Bedouin dead, the Muslims were still not satisfied, not enough blood had yet spilled. Justice was not theirs. The injustice of it all still burned. The toll of it all still went unanswered. No calls went out for afternoon prayers as a lull hung over the village and a pall over the farm. Mel, grazing in the pasture, raised his head. His ears twitching, he sensed something adrift. Something was going to crack the silence and reverberate, spilling over onto the farm, but what he didn’t yet know. He smelled something brewing in the air, though, and it blew over the moshav from the Egyptian village.

Not willing to leave anything to chance and miss an opportunity, Mel went to the barn to find the Messiah, snorting grain in a trough. While many accepted Boris as their savior, others remained skeptical, and with the Jew bird parrot still roosting above them in the rafters, and the Large White still baptizing under the sun at the pond, Mel was determined to do whatever necessary to ensure his rightful position among the animals, all of them.

Mel sensed the silence and felt the rumblings coming from the village. In the barn, he encouraged Boris to go out and parade about the farm among his throngs of faithful followers.

“On such a day as this, it is imperative that you, as the Messiah, and you who wish to remain the Messiah, should, therefore, want to continue your reign as the Messiah by going out of doors among the faithful and prance princely about for they need the pageantry. Hurry, they’re waiting.” Mel knew the Muslims would surely enjoy the spectacle just as Boris would surely enjoy the parade.

Perched on a hill, the merrymakers licked their wounds. Still offended, not yet revenged for the attack against them as they had tried to gather meat for the poor, and their table, which disrupted the natural order of things. This was an uncharitable thing to do, for they were right to feed the poor. It was the charitable thing to have done. Therefore, it was now their turn to return the deed and answer the call, repair the toll, put upon them as a people, as the law dictated, and as Allah’s will would be done. The Muslims knew the attack against them had been led by the great Satan, the red djinn of the desert. Vengeance would be theirs.

Boris waded through his subjects as they bathed in the sun alongside the pond, and grazed in the pasture, and along the tiered slopes that led to the smaller olive trees, where mostly goats grazed. Mel saw the shoulder-held rocket launcher pulled from a corrugated cardboard box labeled “made in China.” Two men wrestled for the honor, until another man, an Alpha male of the Muslim world, a cleric, at the edge of the Muslim village, wrestled the rocket launcher from them. He placed it against his shoulder, adjusted the sights, took aim, and fired. The percussion spooked and scattered the animals to all corners of the farm as the fowl flew through the trees and pigs scurried about. The cleric’s precision single rocket scored a direct hit against Bruce, blowing him to pieces as flesh, blood and bone fell from the sky like hail over the pasture. A large section of carcass landed in a heap, and a solid piece of the steer’s rib cage fell near the road, not far from where Bruce had stood only a moment before.

The pigs thought it was a gift from God. After the carcass and dust settled, they scrambled over the pasture to lap up bits and pieces of bone and flesh that had splattered the grass red. Boris, quick on his hooves, scooped up some bone and meaty flesh himself as he continued his ministry. The laborers came out to chase away the others. They remained to prevent vultures from swarming the farm until Perelman told them to leave the vultures alone. Perelman told the laborers that the Griffon Vultures needed all the help they could get to maintain their species. “They need all the help they can get,” Perelman said, “and so do we. Mohammad’s faithful blind have done us a service.”

In his infinite wisdom, they chanted from the hilltop, Allah is both merciful and just, for not allowing the desecration of the true believers from being touched inappropriately in the night by the hands of Satan’s filthy infidel swineherd! And from their joyous reactions to the killing of Bruce, it was apparent to Mel that Bruce had been their intended target all along. “Idiots,” Mel said and retreated to the sanctuary of the barn. Blaise and Beatrice were in their stalls protecting their own while the sheep and goats were folded in prayer in a corner of the sanctuary. Molly, in her stall, nursed her twin lambs. Mel joined Praline huddled in prayer, hiding in her stall.

“Where’s Julius?” Beatrice whispered. “He’s never where you need him.”

“Seriously, Beatrice, what could Julius have done?”

“He’s always flying off somewhere.”

“He’s free to go wherever he likes,” Blaise said. “He is a bird, after all. He’s not one of us. He’s not livestock.”

“No, he’s not.”

To give comfort to all present, Mel conducted church service and led the farm animals gathered together in the recital of “Rules to Live By, the Fourteen Pillars of Wisdom” as he did every night, “1: Man is made in God’s image; therefore, man is holy, Godly.” The animals recited after him, with Praline’s voice above all the others.

Perelman told the laborers, “His meat was ruined already, and he was useless to us anyway. He took up valuable resources.” The pigs squealed with pleasure and ran amok through the pasture as they fought over the remains of flesh and blood in the grass and the dirt, eating what they could find of bone and morsels of meat. Perelman said, “Pigs are omnivores. We can’t expect them to live on the slop and grain we feed them.” As the others had taken cover and scattered about the moshav, the pigs remained vigil and hungry, and devoured all that they could rut scattered over the pasture. “Regardless of the nutritional value and vitamins, it doesn’t matter to them. This is comfort food.”

Trooper and Spotter, the two Rottweilers, fought over the skull and ate what was left of the steer’s brains.

“Juan,” Isabella said, “I don’t want those disgusting dogs in the house tonight, maybe not again, ever.” She turned toward the house without a response.

“What?” they whined, and ran for the barn and to Mel.

Juan Perelman told the three laborers that he was going to expand the dairy operation to both sides of the road. “We’re going to rid ourselves of these animals, sell them off to the Americans.”

“Even the red calf?” The Thai asked.

“What difference does it make? The red calf isn’t red anymore. They want the cow and the calf. Let them have them, the pigs, too, and the sheep. We have all we can manage now with twelve Holsteins and their calves. Besides, getting rid of the pigs should allow us some peace around here. I know it’ll make Isabella more peaceful.”

After the recital, Mel comforted the dogs.

“She didn’t say anything about them,” Spotter whined. “Why do they get special treatment?”

“There, there, it’s all right. You must remember pigs are special, a breed apart, superior to lesser animal forms such as dogs,” Mel said, reassuring Spotter and Trooper. “Pigs are more important than we are. They are procured for human consumption, whereas we are not.”

“They’re scraps for us too!”

“Now, now, boys, remember the pig population is protected, looked upon more favorably than the rest of us lower forms of animal and livestock.”