– or –

Once he noticed them, he wondered how they’d evaded him for so long: stout, typewriter-sized, violet-colored pigs, digging their snouts beneath rotting vines. The Young Man had hitherto been subsisting on megafrond mouthfuls, so the sight of these seemingly defenseless, perfectly meal-sized creatures gave his salivary glands an erection.

They were slow enough to simply pick up, and even easier to kill. The Young Man was not aware of this poison pig’s postmortem vengeance, and so, he ate. Really, he barely chewed. He gnawed and swallowed and smiled until he could not, then put his back to the ground beneath a pygmy tree as the impulse to nap seized his skull organ.

What he did not know, but would soon discover, was that violet junglepigs do not react well to the acids of the human stomach. They aren’t digested, so much as liquefied and rocketed downward. The blissful sluggishness of fullness was not to be his, nor the extreme discomfort that typically follows such rapid consumption. All he felt was an urgent need to defecate. His eyes screamed open; he hastily stood and covered the end of his body. His arse came before he could find a suitable makeshift restroom.

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