This Little Piggy 
Copyright (c) 1994, Robin Aiken
All rights reserved




                       This Little Piggy
                        by Robin Aiken


        3:02.
        The glowing red numbers seared through my eyes, imprinting themselves 
onto the back of my retina.  I closed my eyelids, but the phosphorescent glow 
lingered, taunting me.  Mocking me.
        "Not tonight," I groaned.  In a mere four hours I would have to get 
up and I couldn't figure out what was keeping me from slipping into sweet 
oblivion.  But in the deep recesses of my mind, I knew what kept me awake.  
Revenge.  Revenge from the spirit of my last alarm clock.  
        Last week, my previous alarm clock died a sudden, violent death.  It 
hit a wall going about forty miles an hour.  The clock was going about forty 
miles an hour, not the wall.  And I was the one who threw it at said wall.  I 
admit it was a childish thing to do, but that incessant chirping noise bored 
into my brain and woke up some primitive, impulsive part of me.  Before I 
knew it, my poor innocent little clock lie in a myriad of plastic and 
electronic pieces all over my floor.  Now, its soul inhabited my new clock 
and it was punishing me with insomnia until I made amends.  I was pondering 
what an alarm clock would accept as a sacrifice when the sound of the 
doorbell echoed through my small apartment.           
        I hopped out of bed, smiling as I went through the living room to the 
front door.  Ha, I could place all the blame on the unsuspecting fool (it 
seemed safer than accusing an inanimate object) who dared to ring my doorbell 
at three o'clock in the morning.  My sleep-deprived mind began to weave 
intricate images of bodily harm upon this unknown interloper.  Iron maidens 
and stretching racks danced in my head as I savagely flipped the dead bolt 
and flung the door open.
        "You'd better be Mr. Sandman himself if you expect to walk away form 
here without a red-hot poker sticking out of your lower orifice!" I growled.
        A bespectacled man in a baby blue robe and fuzzy slippers jumped and 
started to wave his arms.
        "I . . uh . . ah . . . the . . .," he stammered and continued to 
flap.
        I bared my teeth, "Either flap hard enough to fly away or tell me 
what the hell you are doing disturbing me in the middle of my peaceful 
slumber!"   I tend to exaggerate when angered.
        He immediately stopped his flapping and began to fidget with his 
glasses, "Oh my gosh, I'm so sorry to . . uh . . disturb your . . uh . . 
peaceful . . uh . . slumber," he finished pitifully.
        "Get it out, man," I demanded, unsympathetic to his plight with 
articulation.
        He took a deep breath and closed his eyes.  Suddenly, like a dam 
bursting, words gushed out of his mouth full force, "I'm so sorry for waking 
you up but I just went through a very strange and disturbing experience and 
I don't know whether I am crazy or not but I just had to see if someone else 
maybe went through the same thing and I know it's a long shot but I have this 
real problem with accepting something like being crazy because I'm a computer 
programmer and I have a very rational and logical mind and to think that 
insanity has entered it like some kind of virus, eating away at the circuits 
and . ."
        "Stop!" I held up my hands, as if they could physically block his 
unending speech from reaching my ears.
        Miraculously, the barrage of verbiage ceased.  
        "Okay," I said with extreme patience.  "You are an upset computer 
programmer who feels the need to rush out at three o'clock in the morning 
and wake up an upset chemistry professor to have a chat.  So I know what you 
are and why you're here.  Now please tell me this - who are you?" 
        This seemed to confuse him, for his brows furrowed and he learned 
back slightly.  "Why I, uh, I'm your next door neighbor.  I live in 3B," he 
pointed to the door down the hall to my left side.  Oh.
        "Oh," I said, "I didn't recognize you in your . ." I looked down at 
his blue robe and fuzzy slippers,". . nightclothes."  As if I would recognize 
him out of them.
        He nodded vigorously, "I understand, I look quite different in my 
casual attire."
        Yeah, a pocket protector makes a world of difference.
        "My name is Gerald Hoffman and I know yours is Dr. Bernadine 
Rimehart," he paused and his face turned scarlet, "I mean, I know your name 
because I, uh, I saw it on the mailbox next to mine downstairs and . ."
        "Just call me Bernie, okay?" I said, sparing him.
        "Bernie?"
        "Yeah, Bernie," refusing to explain.
        I invited him in, hating myself for doing so, but if he flipped and 
began to shoot everyone at work because his next door neighbor wouldn't 
listen to him in his hour of need, I would feel damn guilty.
        Ordering him to sit down on my threadbare couch, I sank into my 
comfortable recliner and prepared myself.
        "Talk," I demanded.
        Gerald looked flustered for a moment and sighed.  "I was in my 
apartment working on a new idea for a database that would virtually 
revolutionize the computer industry because of this . ."
        I cleared my throat loudly.
        He looked guilty, "Sorry.  I was working and I lost track of time.  
When I finally stopped, it was two o'clock.  I went back to the living room, 
that's where I have my computer and everything, and put all my notes in my 
safe,"  He glanced at me, "I keep them in a safe in case the building burns 
down."  
        Thoughtful guy. 
        "Anyway, as I was twisting the knob, I heard this kind of pop."
        "What kind of 'pop'?", regretting the words the instant they came 
out.
        A thoughtful look crossed his face, "It was like a kernel of popcorn 
being popped.  Nothing loud or anything.  Just a pop!."
        "Okay, a pop!.  Go on"
        "So I turned around quickly.  Instinctively.  I didn't even know 
what to expect because I didn't have time to think about it.  But when I 
turned around . . in the middle of the living room there was . . .," he 
faded off, staring into the depths of my scarred coffee table.
        "What?" I said, irritated at my curiosity, "A gigantic roach?  The 
ghost of Orson Wells?  Elvis?"
        He tore his eyes away from the table and looked into my eyes 
imploringly, "I saw a pig."
        A pig?
        "A pig?", I said.
        He looked away and adjusted his glasses, "Well, it sort of looked 
like a pig.  But it was different,"  His eyes met mine once more.  "Its ears 
were wrong and the snout was a little more elongated and it was wearing a 
shiny suit."
        "A Mafia pig?"
        His head shook.  "No, I mean like a shiny space suit."
        Oh God.
        "And he had this glass tube in his hand, it was a hand, not  hoof, 
and he looked at me and then went to the bathroom."
        "In your living room?"  Why this surprised me, I don't know.
        "No, I mean he walked into the bathroom and closed the door.  He was 
in there for about two minutes.  I didn't know what to do.  I just stood 
there until he came out.  And when he came out, he didn't have the glass 
tube.  He walked to the center of my living room and pop! he was gone,"  
Gerald leaned back and put his hands in his lap.
        My mind was blank.  Desperately, I searched for something, anything 
to say.    Something to soothe his deranged psyche.  Something to ease his 
mind out of some low-budget science fiction movie and back to reality.  
Something to get this ranging lunatic out of my apartment.  But what came 
out was, "A pig from outer space used your bathroom."
        Gerald pushed his glasses back into place with a shaking hand, "It 
wasn't really a pig and I don't know if he really . . uh . . used the 
bathroom.  He was in the bathroom, but I don't know what he did.  I think it 
involved the glass tube, though."
        Yeah, right.
        "I know that it sounds absurd, but it really happened.  If it had 
just been a dream, I would have known.  I mean, I would have woken up with 
my head on my desk, but I didn't.  I was standing in the living room when 
the p . . the thing disappeared.  I stood there for a while, like I was in 
shock.  I replayed the whole thing in my head over and over, trying to make 
sense of it.  But I couldn't."
        "So you came over here."
        "I'm sorry, I know you think I'm a psycho, but it happened.  It 
really happened, Bernie,"  Soulful eyes begged me to believe him.
        I didn't need this.  In a few hours, twenty-six students would be 
begging me to tell them all about isotopes and polymers and organic compounds 
so they could get the college part of their lives out of the way and get 
back to the partying, beer-drinking, socializing part.  But instead of the 
efficient and lively teacher of chemicals and compounds they all knew and 
loved, they would find a hysterical, babbling wreck of a human because she 
was torn away from at least a few moments of rest and relaxation to listen 
to the amazing tale of a boy and his pig.  What did I do to deserve this, I 
screamed at any deity bored enough to listen to a common mortal.  My eyes 
fell upon the quivering, pathetic figure before me and I knew what I had to 
do.  I had to lie.
        I scooted myself to the edge of the chair in an attempt to look 
sympathetic and believing.
        "Gerald, many things exist in this world that no one can explain.  
Look at the pyramids, electricity . . ."
        The seventies.
        ". . . Stonehenge.  Your experience is just another unexplainable 
event, like eclipses and lightning was to ancient man."
        Was he buying it?
        His mouth opened slightly and he whispered, "Gosh, I never thought 
about that way."
        I vigorously nodded my head, "Ignorance breeds fear.  I'm sure there 
is a perfectly rational explanation . . ."
        Insanity.
        ". . . for your experience, but until the reason is discovered, 
there is no reason to be afraid."
        "Then . . . you believe me?"
        A motherly smile spread across my face, "Of course!  Something 
certainly did happen to you . . ."
        A brain tumor.
        ". . . that merits understanding, not blind terror."
        "You're right, Bernie.  You're absolutely right.  It's my duty to 
look at this situation with a scientific mind,"  He held his now steady hand 
outwards.  "Like you do.  Solving a problem with observable facts.  That's 
what we need to do!"
        We?
        He went on, "I know we can solve this mystery if we just put our 
minds to it."
        Our ?  Somehow, my attempts to get him out the door had led to him 
planning our research project.
        "We can go back to my apartment and input all known data into my 
computer,"  His lips curved into a smile.  "I built it myself.  Well, I 
didn't really build it, but I put it together and . . ."
        Beeeeep!  This mindless rambling has been interrupted by a special 
service announcement:  Remember the database.
        Ah.  I had an idea.
        "Gerald?" I took his hand.  His clammy, somewhat sticky hand.  I 
tried my hardest to block the images that entered my mind.  
        He looked somewhat confused and began to fidget, "What?"
        "I know it is very important to solve this riddle of the universe as 
soon as possible, but I think you're forgetting something."  
        He still looked confused, "What?" 
        "Your . . uh . . database."
        The light bulb above his head glowed dimly. "My database?"
        Jesus Christ.  "Your database, your pride and joy?"
        His eyes shifted, "What about my database?"
        On a popsicle stick, "If we're spending day and night working on why 
your mysterious friend took a pit stop at you pad, when will you have time 
to finish your database?"
        He stared at the floor and the light bulb increased a few watts.
        Come on, work with me.
        "So . . you think maybe I should finish my database first?"
        Bingo!
        I patted his hand, "It would be in your best interest.  I also have 
several things I have to rap up before I take on this project . . ."
        Like the rest of my life.
        ". . .and it really deserves our full, undivided attention."  
        Gerald took off his glasses and stood up, "You're right!"
        My whole body slumped.  There is a God.
        "I'll perfect my database and then we'll get to work."  He gazed 
down at me with a proud gleam in his eyes.
        "Great idea,"  I said through clenched teeth.
        I escorted him to the door, fighting down the impulse to kick him 
repeatedly, and we said our goodbyes.  In other words, he said goodbye and I 
shoved him out into the hallway, muttering, "Don't call us, we'll call you."
        Yawning, I shuffled into my bedroom and was greeted by a new set of 
glowing numbers.  4:32.
        "More than enough time,"  I sighed and threw myself onto my bed.
        
        I didn't come home till one the next night.  It was wet and dreary, 
fitting my mood perfectly.  No sleep, at total of eighty-nine students 
whining like children because I had scheduled the chemistry exam on the same 
day they had at least twelve different exams and an inescapable teachers 
conference made the idea of becoming Catholic and running off to a convent 
sound perfectly reasonable.  I would pick up a guitar on the way and begin 
committing showtunes to memory.  
        I went to the kitchen and began stuffing the tacos I had picked up 
on my way home into my face.  God invented cafeteria food to torment college 
students, not teachers, and if Mexican fast-food was to be my savior, then 
so be it.  I knew I was provoking my reoccurring dream, in which a 
gargantuan burrito burns me alive at the stake while tostadas and nachos 
dance around brandishing bottles of Pepto-Bismol, to visit me tonight, but 
there was no way I was going to let hunger keep me awake.  Hunger I could 
control, if nothing else.  Maybe, I giggled, a pig in a suit would have the 
honors of setting me ablaze tonight.  I took a gulp of watery, uncarbonated 
cola and prepared to literality drag myself to my bedroom.
        Pop!
        My ears perked up at this sound and I rushed into the living room, 
expecting . . .well, not really knowing what to expect.  At the doorway I 
stopped and Gerald's words echoed in my head.
        "Well, it sort of looked like a pig . . ."
        Oh my god, a PIG.
        ". . . but it was different . . ."
        A pig in my living room.  A pig, after a pop!, in my living room. 
        ". . . it's ears were wrong . . ."
        More like a German Shepherd's ears than a pigs.  Smaller and upright, 
rather than big and floppy.
        ". . . the snout was a little more elongated . . ."
        In fact, it looked prehensile.  An elephant's trunk severally 
shortened to about eight inches.
        ". . . it was wearing a shiny suit . . ."
        It wasn't really a suit.  It looked like someone had wrapped 
aluminum foil all over my visitors little body.
        But other than the ears, the nose, the hands and the suit (which 
covered his piggy or non-piggy feet, I couldn't tell), he looked like a 
definite member of the porcine family.  Approximately three feet tall, the 
perfect shade of pink, little piggy eyes, a rounded body.  Yep, ol' Gerald 
was right about the resemblance.  Then, before I could further commend 
Gerald on his keen talent for observation, Mr. Pseudo-Pig started . . . 
walking? trotting? . . . towards my bathroom.  My eyes zeroed in on the 
object clutched in it's tiny paw.
        ". . . he had this glass tube in his hand . . ."  
        About a foot long and two inches wide, it seemed to be crafted out 
of plastic, rather than glass, and housed a bundle of wires which ran from 
end to end.  Before I could deduce anymore, it reached it's destination and 
closed the door. 
        Maybe it was a high-tech plunger and he was a extremely disfigured 
plumber with a strange mode of transportation.  Maybe Gerald's insanity was 
contagious and I was infected with a new kind of virus (Dementia Porcinus), 
spreading through my mind until I finally ran through the streets screeching 
incoherently at strangers about farm animals and got run over by an elderly 
man in a Buick.  Maybe my taco was laced with LSD.  Maybe I'm dead and this 
is hell.
        Stop it!, the rational part of my mind (what little was left) 
shrieked.  Stop acting like the hysterical, mindless, moronic heroine of a 
bad horror movie and do something constructive!
        "Okay", I said (ignoring the fact that I was talking to myself).  "I 
need to think . . . think . . . . think . . . . ."
        Get on with it!
        "All right!"  God, I was pushy.  Let's see, if Mr. Pseudo-Pig is 
real, he might be dangerous.  A weapon!  I need a weapon!
        I ran to the kitchen and began to frantically search for a cleaver, 
an ice pick, or even a sword.  I came up with a plastic knife from a fast 
food restaurant.  Why didn't I ever learn to cook!
        What about the baseball bat in the closet, Einstein?
        Of course, my baseball bat!
        With one great leap, I hurled myself through the living room and 
into the hall closet.  The door was shut.
        "Ouch" I said.  But I took no notice to the throbbing pain in the 
middle of my forehead and opened the door, grabbed the bat and hopped back 
into the living room to survey the bathroom door.  I was ready.
        As if on cue, out he came.
        I held my bat in front of me and pretended he was just a big, pink 
ball.
        He took a few steps towards me and then, noticing the bat, stopped.  
Tiny, piggy eyes regarded me unblinkingly.
        I tried to look menacing, "What are you doing here, pig-boy?", I 
snarled.
        It turned it's head like a dog hearing a high pitch.  I looked at 
its' hands.  No tube.  I wanted to cry, but I shook my bat in a threatening 
manner instead.  
        It's nose curved upward, as if in disgust.  "I am not here to harm 
you," it said in a quiet voice.
        Yeah, that's what all the brain-sucking aliens say.  I shook the bat 
again and cried, "Then why are you here, in my apartment, using my 
bathroom!"
        Pointy ears perked up and the snout went back down. "Ah, you are 
scared.  I mistook your actions.  Please forgive me."
        It was apologizing?  "Uh, okay," I said stupidly.
        "And I apologize for trespassing on your property.  I know your race 
considers it unlawful, but under the circumstances, I think a break in the 
rules is not important,"  The tiny eyes suddenly blinked rapidly for several 
seconds.
        "What," I said, mesmerized by his fluttering eyes, "are the 
circumstances, if I may ask."
        "Why, to save your planet," astonishment slightly coloring his voice.
        Of course, mentally slapping my forehead, I should have known!
        "You see," he went on, "we, my fellow brothers and I, have foreseen 
the destruction of Earth and I am here to correct things."
        My heart stopped and thundered at the same time.  "You're from the 
future?"
        A sound emitted from the creature that sounded like a twittering 
bird, "Oh no!  That would be impossible.  No, we, my brothers and I, simply 
examine current data to interpret what events will occur next.  The universe 
follows a pattern and if your society ever evolves from its primitive state, 
it will come to this same conclusion."
        Oh God.
        A fortune-telling pig.  No, not just a pig.  A pig and his brothers.  
Laughter welled up deep within my inner being.  Hysterical, maniacal 
laughter.  My brain had turned to mush.  I'm sure I felt it slowly dripping 
out of my ears.
        "But since you can't, we, my brothers and I, felt we had to 
intervene and steer you clear of this disaster."
        What in the hell does that have to do with my bathroom?
        "What does all this have to do with my bathroom?" I asked.
        His ears and snout twitched, "The pattern showed that a global 
catastrophe would occur when everyone on your plant uses their elimination 
systems simultaneously, causing an overload and subsequent eruptions."
        My brain was oozing onto the floor and he expected me to comprehend 
complex sentences?  "What does that mean?"
        "Everyone flushes at the same time and the sewers blow up."
        Oh God.
        "Persons with their own personal septic systems and others with no 
sanitation systems will not be affected by this at first, but with the 
methane 'fallout', they will be dead within a week or two."
        Dead.  Like a ton of bricks, the word hit me and I almost doubled 
over from the pain it held.  Everyone dead.  Gone.  Ceasing to exist.  But 
wait!  Ol' Pinky and his band of benevolent brothers are in the midst of 
saving us from the fifth horseman (Commodial catastrophes, right after 
Famine).  Snatched, at the last minute from the icy hands of the Grim 
Reaper.  Everything's okay.  The sun will continue to shine.  The birds will 
continue to sing.  Everything will be all right.
        The pig took no notice to my change from dribbling idiot to serene 
idiot.  "The device that we, my brothers and I, are putting in your toilet 
will prevent this devastation."
        Great guys, him and his brothers.  "So, do you go around saving 
planets or something?"  
        "Oh no.  It is our philosophy not to interfere with any 
developments, hazardous or beneficiary, of a world under our, my brothers 
and my, observation.  The inhabitants of your planet still have a good 
chance of self-destruction despite our intervention."
        "Then . . . why are you doing this?"
        He paused in thought and looked up at me, "For an entire race to be 
obliterated because of a inefficient sewage system, it's just too . . .", 
his eyes shifted downwards, then met mine once again, ". . . embarrassing."
And with those final words, he went to the center of my living room and pop!.
        How long I stood there, my eyes fixed on the spot where he 
disappeared, I do not know.  Finally, I realized I was staring at the carpet 
and forced my body to move towards my comfortable recliner.  I collapsed 
into it and slowly, the gears in my mind began to turn again.  And I 
thought.
        While I sat in my comfortable recliner and pondered the existence of 
life, people all over the world slept or worked or sat around, not knowing 
how close they had been to certain death.  Next door, Gerald dreamed a dream 
in algorithms and binary numbers.  And somewhere out there, pigs really did 
fly.

