by D. Harlan Wilson
“I can rip just about anything in half.” I started with a sheet of vellum followed quickly by a slice of cheese. Neither feat garnered much acclaim, so I moved on to a quarter, a picnic basket, and finally a hardcover edition of War and Peace.
Spectators observed me like television screens . . .
“What about this here hog?”
The farmer pushed his way to the front of the crowd. He removed a choke-chain from the hog’s neck and kicked it in the shin. He kicked it again. The hog crept forward, glancing nervously over its shoulders. Occasionally it emitted a subdued oink.
I knelt and clicked my tongue. The hog came closer. I reached out my hand. It sniffed and licked my fingers.
I stood and circled the hog, gauging its distribution of poundage. Most of the weight appeared to be in its haunches, although its oversized head gave me second thoughts, and its pot-belly commanded my attention, too. I looked into the hog’s eyes. It oinked at me assertively.
I lifted the hog over my head and ripped it in half. Offal exploded across the sky like the pulp of screaming watermelons . . .
“My hog!” shouted the farmer, falling on the carcass. He struggled like a child to stuff the swine’s entrails back into its severed halves. “I loved this damned hog! It was a prize hog! God help me!”
The crowd became unruly, but their tempers weren’t beyond repair. Things didn’t really start to get out of hand until a slot technician dared me to rip his vending machine in half . . .
