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Brian stood shaking in the back door entryway, working his jaw nervously. He stared ahead at the opposite wall just two feet from his muzzle. The blemishes in its paint job didn’t bring him solace, and the lump in his throat grew larger. Trying to catch his breath was a fruitless endeavor in such a small space—for him, at least.
His gaze begrudgingly shifted to the small, disheveled davenport beside him: a reminder of the bag’s presence. It sat there, lopsided, its lip fluttering away from the AC unit. He grimaced at it for a moment, brow furrowing, but the heat in his face only grew stronger the second Carlson stepped inside, bringing an ineffective breeze with him.
His leather polo was strapped taut around the contours of his physique, which shimmered in the dim light. His pants were comparatively baggy and marred with some brown pigment. The glasses did little to belie his baleful glare, and his scowl made Brian gulp. He heard himself swallow, and so did Carlson.
His ears perked, and he whipped his fat head, looming over Brian from the other side of the room.
“The hell are you still doing here?” Carlson hissed, an ear flicking to Brian. He balled a fist, which peered just beyond a veil of shadow so Brian could see.
“Sorry, I’m just–” Just what? The deal was supposed to start five minutes ago; it should have been over by now. He steeled himself for a verbal barrage, eyes downturning.
“Get out there, son. You have a customer waiting, and a lack of punctuality ain’t good for business.”
“I know, I know. Can I just have another minute?”
“You’ve had five.”
“I know.”
“So get out there.”
“I know.”
“I didn’t ask if you knew; I said to get out there—now.”
“Okay.”
“Get your shit together.”
Brian drew a quivering breath.
Carlson’s eyes were teeth on his neck as he turned to snatch the bag. The rustling jostled him further from his lament, and he found himself clawing at its insides for the product. His face grew hot when he realized he couldn’t find it. In his periphery, Carlson flashed razors behind his lips; they shimmered—or, so he thought, though it could’ve been tears forming in the corners of his eyes. He could not truly discern as he continued to rummage for another agonizing moment.
His inner lip bled as he finally retrieved the baggie from the bag with an accidental chuff. He pulled it out and cupped it in his palm. His bulbous eyes took a moment to adjust to a new discrepancy in the thing he’d just spent the past five minutes staring at. Grazing it lightly with a claw, the yellow powder inside contorted and shifted around his digit. He remained cautious and stopped halfway, but shoved it haphazardly into his pocket anyway as Carlson boomed.
“He is expecting professionalism. You’ve already made him wait.”
“I’m sorry.”
“I don’t want your sorry; I want you to get out there.”
“Sorry.”
Carlson gave him a look.
Brian slammed his eyes shut, expecting something. Whatever the something was, it didn’t come.
“This is a big one, Brian. Don’t screw it up.”
The slamming of a metal door echoed instead. Tension held in the planes of Brian’s face, shifting hues of bristly blacks and browns. He snorted, then growled, then seethed. His paws slammed against the sides of his muzzle, one repelling before coming back down harder, crushing his whiskers. They both dragged down, and his mouth creaked open wide to expose jittering, jagged fangs. No sound came. He slammed it shut, then shuffled two steps to his right and shouldered the door. All worry was dispelled from his face as he prowled into the room. He adopted Carlson’s snarl and looked around.
He could not see much at all. The lights were out, and his vision adjusted.
The bar tables had been mostly torn asunder; broken bottles and no puddles. The place had been condemned for months, and urban explorers had ostensibly stripped it of any valuables it once had. Brian refused to believe it. He had no reason to, but he did anyway. The buffed wood veneering the concrete walls still sheened, and Brian’s expression shifted into confusion.
As he took another step, the toe of his varnished leather shoe found glass—naturally. He winced at the sound. Before he could brush it off, a snort from the far corner of the large space caused him to jump. His eyes did not need time to adjust this time. There, at one of the smaller tables near the back, sat some old, disheveled pig—a boar, to be precise. He had sat himself at a corner table and was gawking at Brian, as if surprised.
“Wow!” he shouted from across the room; it reverberated in Brian’s ears, “Another real-life grizzly! How lucky am I?”
Brian stood awkwardly just beyond the high-top, as if balancing on stilts, and his tongue flicked out to lick his chops. His eyes shifted across the room in a way he felt was surreptitious. There was nothing else of note. He returned his focus to the boar, watching more intently. A piebald color was only bristle-deep, and the twilight did not help to distinguish any other features. He wore a loose winter coat, and his trotters had been shoved into the pockets. Even from here, it was evident that he was visibly shaking. A disgusting creature, Brian thought.
Pacing up from his chest to meet his eyes, Brian could barely discern an elated expression with juxtaposing, downturned, half-lidded eyes. His right tusk had been truncated near the base… maybe that was the reason? Regardless, finding the catalyst for this boar’s pensive glare was not Brian’s responsibility, so he reminded himself as he figured to reapply that scowl he hadn’t realized he’d lost until that moment.
He did just that and began prowling in the gait he had just moments ago. The boar didn’t react any further until Brian approached his side of the room. Their eyes stayed trained on one another.
“Please, take a seat! I have been waiting for you… Well, not you in particular, I guess, but, like, one of you.”
Brian pursed his lips and placed a paw firmly on the top railing of the pseudo-metallic chair. It retained the chill of real metal, and Brian paused as it pervaded his body. He stifled a shiver and pulled himself down.
“Right, yes. Apologies for the, uh, wait.”
“It’s no problem—not really, anyway. I’m sure you have your ways of going about this to ensure it all remains clandestine, no?”
Brian had nothing to say to this, opting to bite his inner lip and place his paws—neatly folded—on the table before him. He scooted in, the chair scraping harshly against the floorboards. The sound sent another chill, and he was reminded why he was here. He huffed and reached into his pocket conspicuously, so as not to raise suspicion. As he searched for the baggie, the boar snorted, and his snout twitched in tandem with the incessant shaking. Brian caught himself staring for a moment before returning to his search. He returned a balled fist to the table, slamming it down, which only made him feel silly when the boar did not react whatsoever.
Brian’s eyes were now justified in staring expectantly, and so he did.
“Oh! Right. Sorry.” The boar chuckled breathily, “Let’s see here…”
Tension returned to Brian’s as the boar’s trotters left his coat pockets. They shifted down to his pants, and he patted around there for a moment, eyes fixed nowhere in particular. Eventually, the boar’s eyes widened just slightly, and he returned both his trotters to the table, carefully placing a wad of crumpled bills before Brian.
Pride swelled in his chest, and his heart dislodged from his ribs for the first time that day. He opened his paw to reveal the baggie of yellow dust, maintaining a flat-eyed stare at the boar’s right tusk all the while. He actively fought the urge to ask about it.
“Hey, where’s the rest?” The boar inquired hesitantly, but he didn’t move to retrieve the money. Brian raised a brow and looked down into his paw. Sure enough, the baggie was there. His gaze flicked up to the boar.
“What?” A gruff more than a word.
“I arranged for an ounce.”
Brian felt the urge to turn around and glance about the room for Carlson. He didn’t.
“This is all you’re gonna get. Take it or leave it.”
“No.”
“Hm?”
“Please, sir.”
Brian instinctively grumbled and threw his head back, eyes shifting to the ceiling. The boar leaned over the table just enough that his breath could reach Brian’s nose. It scrunched up, and he threw his head back a bit further.
“Sir, please, I assure you this is not the amount we had agreed upon. Ask the other one.”
“The other one?”
“Yes, the other grizzly, sir; I had made plans with him: taller, a bit stockier, perhaps?”
“This is all you’re gonna get. Do we–”
“I don’t–”
Brian slammed his fist. The boar stifled an instinctive squeal.
A lull hung, which Brian used to steel himself before mechanically retrieving the revolver from its holster—just like he’d practiced in the mirror the night before. The boar’s gaze did not find it immediately; when it did, his expression only dulled.
“That seems a little redundant,” he said.
Brian did not show his confusion, but the boar seemed to parse it anyway, pointing to his own much smaller teeth between his tusks. Half of them were chipped, and Brian pictured the saliva pooling in his jowls to be a mire of bacteria. The thought made him shiver.
“Listen,” Brian began, building apoplexy in his snarl, “Are you gonna keep busting my balls here? Can we get this moving along?”
“I’m sorry.”
The apology made Brian freeze, his grip on the revolver loosening just enough so blood could flow again. He stared blankly at the boar for a moment, trying to piece together his disjointed thoughts. Before he could speak, though, the boar breathed in.
“Is that a forty-four?”
Brian continued glaring at the boar as the idiot gesticulated with his trotter at the gun. It was pointed directly at his face. Brian’s eyes shifted to the gun. He did not know if it was a forty-four.
“Yeah,” he said, “It is.”
“Ah, I see,” the boar chuffed, still maintaining a haggard grin. The longer it remained plastered on his face, the further Brian’s expression darkened to scorn. For once, the boar seemed to be cognizant of this, and he looked up at Brian suddenly enough to make him jump.
“Sorry. It’s just– I have one, too; I think it’s neat! Have you ever used it?”
Brian’s scorn melted as he turned his attention back to the revolver, rotating it in his grip. His lip quivered, and he looked up at the boar again. He was still smiling. Brian hated it, but the word ripped out before he could stop himself.
“No,” he declared.
He waited to see if the boar would follow up.
“Y’know, it’s not actually even a forty-four caliber?”
A long, uncomfortable silence.
“...What?”
“A ‘forty-four’ caliber—it’s not actually forty-four caliber.”
…
Brian felt a strong urge to shoot him right there on the spot.
“Yeah, the cartridge is actually only forty-three inches,” the boar spoke in candour. “I honestly don’t know why? I think my professor said it used to actually be forty-four, but I dunno.”
Brian continued staring. His grip on the gun had loosened almost completely now, and it lay limp in his palm.
“Oh, my god; I hope I’m not coming off as pretentious in any way! I just thought it to be pertinent and that you might find it interesting.”
“What the hell is wrong with you?” Brian blurted in monotone.
The boar’s eyes widened, then went sullen. He sank into himself, and for the first time, he now seemed genuinely uncomfortable with himself, which is what Brian thought he wanted; he felt his own stomach churn instead. The frivolous nature of the situation had already dawned on him, but he frowned anyway. He swiveled his head back to check the door; nobody stood at the threshold. Brian turned back to the taciturn boar, pulling the revolver back into his steady digits before crossing his burly arms over the table. It creaked under his weight.
“You said your professor?” Brian gruffed. The boar did not answer. “You went to school.”
His ears perked up at that, and he snorted whilst bringing his right trotter back up to the table, asserting it before Brian as if to show him something. There was nothing there. Brian waited patiently for a moment before the boar’s mouth opened, but nothing came of it. It closed, then opened again.
“Yeah. Still do,” he said, sliding his trotter along the granular surface of the table, “Criminal Justice.”
Brian scoffed at this, leaning back in his chair.
“That’s funny.”
“Not really.” His shoulders slumped only slightly.
“Where do you go?”
The boar smiled at that, dragging his trotter back to where it had initially been planted. It skidded occasionally, bumping along the ridges before coming to a halt. Brian did not pay it any mind.
“Rutgers,” he said it plainly, as if it were nothing special. Brian’s gob hung ajar.
“Newark?”
“New Brunswick.” There was a brief pause as the information processed. Brian blinked twice before the corner of his lip threatened to curl.
“Wow,” he huffed, leaning in a bit further, “That’s something.”
The boar snorted again, and his smile grew wider.
“Thank you for the sentiment; it’s all a bit trivial to me.”
“What do you mean? What?.. Cuz’ you’re old?”
“Old?”
Through the translucent, bleary windows near the front of the bar, beams pervaded the room with a cold luminescence. Brian shot up from his seat and went ramrod, his paw flying to the revolver. He did not point it at the windows; instead, he waited patiently—with shaky paws—for something else. His ear flicked toward the boar, who had not moved whatsoever.
Not a hint of ambivalence as he leaned over the table and lifted the baggie in his trotters. He had some trouble holding it up to his eyes, seeing as smaller objects could not be so easily handled without opposable thumbs, though he managed to wedge it between both trotters eventually. He held it carefully and tilted it, curiously watching the malleable, yellow substance sift from side to side as he adjusted his hold. Brian ignored him and began stalking toward the window.
“I’m eighteen,” said the boar, shattering the silence.
Brian stopped dead in his tracks, then turned.
“What?” he coughed, donning an incredulous look.
“You called me old.”
“...I did.”
“I’m eighteen. I still live with my mother,” he declared. “What made you say I look old?”
For some reason, Brian felt his face getting hotter than it’d been in the entryway.
“I dunno.” he reached to scratch the back of his head with the revolver. “It’s dark in here.”
“So it is.”
The boar placed the baggie back on the table carefully and looked to Brian; he remained standing for a moment, though not for much longer. He took his seat again, carefully sliding in before gripping the edges and hopping forward a couple of times, each one shorter than the last. The noises bothered neither of them anymore.
“And you?”
“Hm?” Brian looked up from the table.
“How old are you?”
“Nineteen.” He grunted it without thinking.
“Oh, cool! Are you a student as well?”
Brian scoffed, folding his paws over the revolver on the table. He leaned forward again.
“You’re shitting me?”
“No, it’s a genuine question,” the boar said objectively.
“Nah,” Brian breathed, his head falling with a smirk, “I’m not made for that kinda stuff.”
“Well, what makes you say that?”
Brian shook his head, slinking back in his chair and taking a slouched position as the boar had done. He shoved one paw in his pocket and used the other to make circles with an open paw around his visage. He cocked an eyebrow.
“But surely this is not all you are, yes? Surely there are things you wish to pursue?”
Brian’s smirk lapsed with pursed lips, and they fell as he blew out through his nose. He turned around to look toward the door again: still nothing.
“Yeah,” Brian began, “Yeah, I dunno about all that.”
“Well, have you tried?”
“I just don’t think I can.”
“You doubt your ability?”
Brian took a moment to ponder this.
“No.”
The boar’s eyes sparkled with a recognition of sorts, and he followed Brian’s gaze. They both stared at the door now, neither of them saying so much as a word. Nothing came of it, and yet they remained steadfast for what seemed like hours.
“Family can be hard.” The boar finally spoke again, “I am sorry.”
It filled the room. Brian did not jump this time, turning back to face him with a solemn expression. He did not say anything at all. The corners of his muzzle still pulled down. More time passed, and no words were spoken. Cars came and went outside, whooshing past the building, allowing them to see each other’s faces blearily for a few seconds at a time before being thrust back into darkness. The crumpled-up bills and the baggie sat patiently on the table, unmoving and unabated in their efforts to stay that way.
“Is that why you’re here?” Brian said. The boar did not perk up, but did glance.
“What do you mean?”
“Y’know, to help forget about it?”
“That’s a hefty presumption.”
Brian leaned in closer.
“I don’t really think it is. You’re saying that you can relate.”
“Something like that.”
“And so this could be to help you through that; this is a solution.”
“That is correct.”
“So I’m right?”
“No.”
Brian ripped a low growl, and the boar did not jump again. Brian flashed a good smile.
“So, then what?”
He stared at the boar expectantly, half a smirk still on his face; the longer the boar took to reply, the further it fell. Eventually, he smiled, but it wasn’t a good smile. Brian’s ears surged with blood, begging for something else to fill them.
“It is a permanent solution.”
Brian stared for a moment, then tilted his head, flummoxed.
“I was initially going to use the forty-four—or, well, the forty-three—but I figured this would be less clean-up for whoever is unfortunate enough. Hopefully nobody.”
Another moment of silence passed, and Brian’s shoulders dropped.
“Oh.” He said plainly. The boar cut him off before he could continue.
“I hear this stuff is supposed to be, like, ‘super trippy,’ so I figured it could be a decent method. I might need more, though; otherwise I’ll have to go with the, uh…” The boar lifted a trotter to his head, planting it flush against his temple. Brian watched, gritting his teeth beneath his lips, as he then ripped the trotter from his temple and careened his whole head in the opposite direction. “...The ‘messier’ option.” He made a half-attempt at air quotes, but stopped when he realized his trotters could not convey the gesture properly. He chuckled to himself. Brian felt his lip quiver, and he opened his mouth, but nothing came. The boar looked over and saw Brian struggling to reconcile.
He took advantage of it.
“You said I look old? Perhaps worn, yes?” He began, his warm smile still somewhat present despite a new register taking hold. Brian did not answer.
“Tell me, sir: what is it you see when you look at me?” Brian did not answer again.
The boar looked at him intently.
“Tell me, sir, what do you see?”
“I–” Brian stumbled over himself, the words forming on his tongue and falling apart before they could leave.
The boar readjusted himself in his seat, turning his head so that his truncated stump would be cast in the pallor of what little light permeated the room now. Brian could not look away from it, and his ears would not close.
“You see me, and you see this, do you not? Pigs: what are we to you? We’re these– these old, ugly, gluttonous beasts who roll in mud, and we eat it, too. We are not clean, and we are not capable; this—this is forever internalized.” He said it with conviction. “My mother—she knew this as a sow; she knew it, that when she saw that look of hope in my eyes, she had to crush it at any chance she got, and so she did, and I should be glad for it. If she had refrained, I would have been gone much sooner. It is for her that I have only lost one of these tusks; you see.” He swung a trotter to it, as if he had rehearsed it. “I was gonna be eviscerated and disemboweled in a backstreet lane one night just last year. A coalition of those opposed to detritus like myself wanted my head, and I saw them approach. Only because of my mother’s words did I know to attack first; only because of her did I survive.”
His last words upwelled into a pained squeal. It was not natural.
Brian stared on, exhaling through his open mouth. He did not speak at all. What was he supposed to say?
The boar recomposed himself, looking to Brian with glassy eyes.
“But,” he breathed, “I grow lethargic by the day. I cannot escape the onlookers. The disparagement is too much, and I cannot find any reason to continue on—not like this.
He leaned into the table hard. Brian did not look away,
“I have heard it all: it is selfish; it is ghastly; an abhorrent action; a permanent solution to a temporary problem… If you’d think to say these things—if you’d think to say these things to me—then tell me this one thing: have you lived it, sir?”
As Brian continued his vapid silence, the boar shifted again, but fell back into himself this time. His relaxed demeanor had returned, sans the smile. He glared up at Brian one last time, and something was off. Brian opened his mouth.
“This product is no longer for sale.”
“Sir.”
“You are not doing this. It is not enough product for the deal you wanted, and so it is not worth your money.”
“It will suffice.”
“Stop.”
“You cannot stop me. Please, let me have this. I do not wish for my mother to find me like that; it would ruin her.”
Brian sought the words; he sought something to say. He found nothing at all.
“I am a paying customer. Your father knows I have the money. He expects you to be returning with it—does he not?”
Brian swerved his head away from the boar now, attempting to snatch the baggie as well. The boar got there first, and they sat there with their paw and trotter superimposed.
“Let go,” Brian growled.
“He will not let this go, sir. You must take my money and give me what I have come here for. I am okay with this.”
“No.”
“You will take this money; you will escape all this one day, and you will go to school.” The boar’s voice warbled.
“Stop.” Brian rebutted.
“Let go of it, sir, please.”
“I won’t.”
“And what should you do, then?” The boar jerked his trotter beneath Brian’s claw.
“I don’t know.”
“Let go.”
“I can’t.” Brian jerked back, his claw accidentally slicing into the boar’s pallid flesh. Beneath the bristles, streaks of black began to form in the dim light.
“It’s okay, sir, I promise.”
“...”
“It will be okay.”
“...”
Brian finally seethed and pulled his paw away. He moved to wipe his claw on his pants, furtively swiping and marring them with brown streaks. The boar rose from his seat, carefully dusting the baggie across the table and into a backpack Brian had not seen up until this point. Had he been so ignorant? What else did he miss? The boar removed his jacket as well, haphazardly shoving it in along with the product.
“Apologies, sir. I know my oration and, well, melodrama, can be quite the arduous thing to sit through. I have a proclivity for intellectualizing my thoughts, or so I’ve been told, but what do I know? I’m just a kid.” He chuffed and slung the strap over his shoulder, stumbling out into the moonlight.
And for the first time, Brian could see all of him.
The boar’s sides were atrophied and withered, gashes and lacerations pacing trails across his emaciated form; they were deep, and they were shaded. His potbelly had lost the pot, and his bristle patterns had faded somewhat. His hollow face was lit in that same pallor, and his smile was grand. It pushed the corners of his snout as high as they could possibly go, and his half-lidded eyes had finally shut, softly. His shattered teeth and horn were suddenly beautiful. They glistened. Brian felt it all. He was sure of where the glint in his eye came from this time.
The boar looked at him, and there he sat, awestruck.
“My name is Winnie!” said Winnie.
Brian mouthed it lightly. Then he whispered it. He tried to stand, but found he could not contend with the shock. He sat there motionless. He hoped his words would be tacit.
“Thank you for listening to me!” Winnie exclaimed, his smile growing impossibly wider.
Brian did not move.
Winnie turned away and hobbled toward the door. He staggered his movements like a zombie: something ineffable.
Brian did not move.
An effective gust of wind hit his face, and he blinked.
The sound of a car—closer than ever before—jostled him. It idled outside for five minutes before disappearing into the night.
Brian did not move.
After another minute, the back door to the bar finally swung open.
“Holy mother of god; took you long enough.”
Brian turned to the door with some indiscernible expression. His paw firmly gripped the revolver now.
“Brian, what the hell happened? Did you–”
Brian stood from his seat and pointed the revolver. He pointed it at Carlson. There was no time to react before the bullet pierced and splintered the buffed wood right beside him. Carlson shook, his paws flying to his ears to muffle them before inching back down as the gun smoked. Brian did not flinch, the fur under his eyes wet and matted. His preemptive bereavement would find no way. He remained stewing in it, rasping with each breath.
They stood staring into each other in the dark. Neither of them said a word.