Bob and the Pigs

A humid day mosquito clouds swarm and separate along the dirt road to the farm pig pens hazed by black flies. Bob (an old friend), said, “man, you picked the wrong time of year to come visit,” he chuckled. Hogs grunt and squeal. Slop-time - the air was turgid with with the numberless notes of a stale miasma, the splatter of slick gobs of muck. He hands us smeared green buckets, a yellowing deleterious stench reeks from the semi-solid swill that the hogs grow fat upon. There are stains on baked-in stains here corrugated into noxious layers. At the back of the sties there are heaps of sludge a bilge even the swine could not consume. Bob bends to his tasks whistling happily, while I explain to my wife that Bob used to work for the C.I.A. I can see she is surprised and impressed. “He got tired of that sh*t,” I add.