Breakfast is Served

I had a dream that I was being eaten alive on a farm

by a dusty rose pig covered in mud.

We had prepared for this day.

I reached for the knife hidden in my beaten combat boot and desperately plunged it into the fatty stomach of New York City’s finest prize hog.

Having slashed a gaping hole in its center, I watched as a plethora of blood-soaked organs and intestinal goos oozed out of its body, leaving nothing but a bloody badge in its place.

For the first time, we slept peacefully that night.

Not a brazen grunt or oink in earshot.

Awoken by the rooster’s crow, the farm animals gather at the barn for breakfast. Neighbors pass the butter as we lay down a dozen plates of pancakes & farm fresh bacon.