Bacon's Revenge

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No stealing, very bad form.

I have friends here with some very powerful magic powers that will make you pee-pee shrink to the size of an eraser and your ears grow big enough to flap in the breeze. You have been warned.

(This is a work of pure fiction. No one in this story is meant to depict any person living or dead. My work is not to be plagiarized and no part of it may be reused without my express permission. This story is available to read, for free, with the author’s expressed consent on Inkitt ONLY. If you are reading this elsewhere, the content has been stolen and you are risking your internet security. Read safely and benefit the author, J.G. Bock, by reading from a legitimate source. Thank you.)

Bacon's Revenge

By M60GUNNER

Prologue

In late May of 1539, a Spanish expedition bent its sails to approach a wild, untamed shore after many months at sea. The group of ships sailed into a secluded, wild, pristine bay near present-day Tampa, Florida. After anchoring and securing the ships, a group of small boats landed on the shore.

Stepping off one of the boats and splashing through the salty surf to reach the beach was the leader of the expedition, Hernando DeSoto. He was an experienced conquistador, well-trained and funded, driven by a lust for gold and a desire to spread Christianity among the heathens. For DeSoto, God’s work was at hand. Along with some plundering, in the King’s name, of course.

He must have been anxious to get started. The first leg of his long journey took him to a spot close to present-day Tallahassee. There, they settled in for the winter with some friendly natives. The rest of his adventure would not be so pleasant.

For DeSoto and his 600 followers, it must have been like stepping onto the surface of a different planet. I am sure they were aware they were being watched everywhere they went. Watched by people who were wary of these strange, arrogant men with sharp steel weapons and frightening horses.

Like all explorers and conquerors of the era, they were supplied with the very latest equipment, weapons, and food supplies.

They brought horses, dogs, and an odd creature that would become a lasting legacy in the southern region of what was to become the United States of America.

This four-legged legacy of the age of conquest is not a welcome monument to misguided bravery, foolish intrepid quests, or expanding the boundaries of Western civilization. In fact, it is a very humble creature, a food animal for humans and large predators. But it is tough, adaptable, prolific, and clever.

Its scientific name is Sus Domesticus.

We refer to it differently. We all call this creature a Pig.

The common pig, when managed as a food source, is considered by many cultures to be a very valuable commodity. A multi-billion-dollar food production industry relies on several interesting features of Sus Domesticus’s nature and lifecycle.

It is a naturally prolific creature. Sows can produce 4 litters a year with anywhere from 4 to 14 piglets. They eat anything they can chew, literally almost anything, and grow close to 300 pounds within a year.

Hernando DeSoto was wise to bring them along on his mission. They were his guaranteed protein, no matter what challenges he might encounter. His herd was self-propagating, foraged on whatever was at hand, and highly nutritious.

But something happened along the way. As he bullied and hacked his way through the unforgiving forests and indigenous peoples on his four thousand-mile journey, he understandably lost a few live pigs.

He may have used them in trade or as gifts to bribe tribes into granting him passage. It is doubtful DeSoto thought this was much of a problem. Sus Domesticus just kept breeding and being pigs. DeSoto kept enjoying his daily chop and roast. If a few escaped into the forest, they were soon replaced.

These escaped pigs soon reverted to their original natures. They had no natural predators, the southern climate was reasonably mild, and there was abundant food. Southern Georgia was a Pig paradise.

And so, Sus Domesticus went wild in their new playground.

They grew out their hair, long and black, to help them hide in the shadowy forests. The males developed four-inch-long tusks to defend their harems. Their skin thickened and hardened into a flexible armor, and their skulls adapted into thick shovel-shaped tools for rooting and plowing through the underbrush. The sows did what nature intended, and the population exploded.

Hernando DeSoto has generated a lot of ink. His place in the history of European expansion is secure. For good or ill, we cannot deny he was a brave, intrepid explorer and soldier and a man of his era. As a diplomat and representative of Christianity, he failed. He and his men spread disease to the native peoples, devastating their populations. This is the traditional reading of his legacy.

For the people now living in the southern U.S. His true legacy is entirely different and rarely noted in the history books. Wild pigs are a tangible, problematic, living embodiment of DeSoto’s hubris, ignorance, and lust for glory. Farmers, ranchers, and people living in the country outside of the towns and cities are dealing with his reckless behavior every day.

He introduced a destructive, dangerous, invasive species into North America. Feral hogs destroy billions of dollars’ worth of crops a year. They spread diseases to cattle and humans. They destroy natural habitats for native species. Wetlands and waterways are fouled and destroyed. Native bird populations are suffering.

Feral hogs are normally shy and retreat from humans, but when cornered and wounded, they are extremely aggressive. Bore hogs have been known to gut a human in a split second. And once down and bleeding, a hog will not hesitate to eat you, alive.

Eradication projects have failed every time. Pigs are the ultimate survivors.

Left unchecked, wild pigs will wreck the agricultural industry, destroying the ecosystems they have adapted to. That could mean worldwide agricultural collapse. Especially if a virus or some type of disease develops in a population of feral hogs, which cows, sheep, goats, or even humans have no immunity to. Something malevolent could be growing right now, deep in a dark forest, that could destroy our way of life forever.

This is why a battle is being waged. A battle between two species. One that has learned to live successfully in the natural environment, the other that has mastered how to manipulate the natural environment into something different. It’s a quiet war with very real consequences.

Who will win?

Pigs or people?

Assuming, of course, that humans don’t help the pigs by destroying ourselves.

Chapter 1

“Order up!”

The short, chubby cook in the greasy apron slammed the bell hard to get Vivian’s attention. She was chatting with one of the ranchers at the counter of the crowded diner. He glanced briefly at her short, tight waitress uniform before turning back to the large flattop grill. Viv knew her long legs and strategically snug blouse helped with her tips.

He twirled the spatula as he studied the steaming flattop grill. The grill was filled with eggs, sausage, pancakes, hashbrowns, and bacon. A lot of bacon. All the breakfast ingredients, in various states of doneness, were organized around the sizzling bacon. The smoky bacon fragrance filled the air for miles around the long, low Diner by the side of the busy highway.

Chewy, the short-order chef, was good at his job. A thousand meals a week were quickly and efficiently prepared on his gleaming flat-top grill under the rumbling vent hood. The vent hood that threw the delicious fragrance of bacon into the air around Cat’s Pit Stop Diner. It was the lure that brought the customers in every morning. Several hundred a day.

Cat’s Pit Stop was the place to be for a hearty breakfast in Brookwell, Texas. Chewy and his cousin Paul made it all day. If you ordered a breakfast burrito at 6 pm. You got a Breakfast burrito. And a good one. Big, stuffed, next to beans and rice, smothered in spicy green or red sauce. Or a chop with scrambled eggs and hash browns.

Sally Gilford, the owner, did not believe in small portions. Pancakes, waffles, roast beef, mashed potatoes with peas. Hot sandwiches, burgers, fries, all the staples. Cat’s Pit Stop delivered. Hot, wholesome, well-made comfort food in ample quantities on large dark blue plates.

Indeed, the menu listed just about whatever you wanted, anytime. Sally, the second owner of Cat’s Pit Stop, opened the Diner at 5 am every day and closed at 10 pm.

She sponsored the local teams, bought beef from local ranchers, and contracted with local farmers’ wives for fresh produce. Set up a chicken ranch with a rancher’s wife. Everyone called her Miss Sally, as was common in central Texas.

Sally worked hard every day and slept soundly at night. She pushed herself to exhaustion because she wanted to dream about the peace she had found and how lucky she was. Sally worked hard to forget where she came from.

She had bought it sight unseen from a Realtor, 5 years ago. In a fit of despondency after her marriage failed, her mom’s passing, and waking up to the crushing loneliness of the city, she decided to reinvent herself.

Sally escaped a bad marriage with a cheating spouse, a soul-destroying job, and the mega city she grew up in. She jumped at the chance for a complete and utter reversal in the trajectory of her life. At 37, everyone in her circle of family and friends said she was insane and making a huge mistake.

They were all wrong.

Buying an old Diner in a tiny little town and moving away turned out to be the best thing Miss Sally ever did.

She devoted every waking moment to modernizing the Cat’s Pit Stop and marketing it. It didn’t hurt business that Sally, or Sal, to her close friends, was tall, black-haired, buxom, and pretty. She was always ready with a joke, a smile, and a wink.

Being a former corporate lawyer, Miss Sally could talk to anyone about anything and make them walk away thinking they were the smartest person in the room. She knew how to build a market at the personal level.

The ranchers, construction workers, mechanics, and truck drivers all adored her and were secretly in love with her. To them, she was as big a reason to come to Cat’s Pit Stop as the hearty meals and constant fragrance of apple wood-smoked bacon.

Vivian glided up from the main floor and snatched the two plates loaded with breakfast special number 4 from the warming shelf. She placed them in front of two regulars sitting at the main counter.

“Here you go, sweeties, two number fours with extra bacon. Toast is coming up. Can I top off your coffee, Carl?”

Carl Selmer nodded his scruffy, shaggy head and pushed his coffee cup at Vivian. “Yes, please, Viv. Has Glenn been in yet?”

Viv scanned the noisy, crowded diner and then tipped her blond head to look out of the low window. “Not yet. Wait, I see his truck. He’s coming.”

Carl’s best friend, chubby Delmer Gober, looked over his oil-stained shoulder. “Lord, he is going to get a ration of shit today!”

“You ain’t lying, Del. He’s gonna be lucky if these ranchers don’t eat him for breakfast! Boots and all!”

Viv looked at the two ranch hands, fluttered her fake eyelashes in annoyance, and pointed at Carl, then Del. “You two shush up! Glen can’t fix the damn problem unless he gets the county to shell out some real money. These shit kickers in here will bitch about a sunny day and free beer.”

Carl nodded hard. “Augie was a good man and didn’t deserve to die that way!”

Viv crossed her arms across her chest. “I know. He was a sweet man.” She paused and closed her eyes for a moment in silent prayer. “But Glen Hooper is just one man, and this is a big damned county. Eat up, you two idiots. People are waiting for those seats.”

Del and Carl looked at their plates and then back at Vivian.

Carl picked up his fork. “Yes, Mame.”

Del reached for the hot sauce. “I am hungry. Can I have some extra toast, Viv?”

“Yes, just a minute.”

Viv’s blond ponytail bounced back and forth as she trotted over to a large table of ranchers starting to stand up, rubbing their bellies and insulting each other. An older rancher in tattered bib overalls and muddy cowboy boots snatched the check from her and winked at her.

“This is my treat today, Viv. What time do you get off? I have a new tractor you just have to take a ride on.”

“Harold, I’m going to tell your wife you’re flirting again! You are old enough to be my grandpa!”

Harold winked and smiled. “I’m still young enough to make you smile, sugar!”

“Go on, git you old goat. I have work to do!”

Harold and his friends worked their way through the diner to the cash register. Viv picked up a very large tip and began to clear the table. She looked out of the window again and bit her lip. She watched as Glen pulled into the crowded parking lot.

Glen Hooper guided his big mud-spattered county 4X4 into a space next to another massive mud-encrusted 4X4 pickup the size of a world war 2 destroyer. In fact, the entire gray gravel parking lot in front of Cat’s Pit Stop was full of similar trucks.

The dusty and mud-splattered truck that Glen drove had one distinct difference from all the other trucks in the parking lot. On both doors, a large circular logo announced that his truck was driven by a Texas State Wildlife Management Agent. He was the chief game warden for Bramble County and the City and Township of Brookwell.

He turned off the truck and sat quietly for a moment, noticing several of the trucks were heavily loaded with fencing materials. His pale blue eyes scanned the huge field behind the restaurant. It was torn up and ripped by jagged furrows. Large chunks of sod lay flipped over. A section of fence lay flat as if a piece of machinery had rolled over it.

Glen took a deep breath. He knew all too well what had caused the damage. It was close to town, too close. His head turned slowly to his right. Glen read the front page headline of the Bramble County Herald again. It read in large bold lettering; Local Man Gored By Feral Hog, Dies.

He closed his eyes and took several deep breaths as he tried to push away the memory of the gruesome scene he had endured the day before. The Sheriff’s words still swam in his consciousness. As they knelt next to the stinking, torn remains of Augie Phillips. “Looks like he was gutted like a fish, Glen. We are still looking for his foot.”

“… looking for his foot.”

“… looking for his foot.”

A loud bang shook Glen.

The noise and laughter startled him. He was glad to be back in the present moment. Yesterday was still there. Lurking, ready to spring back at him in an unguarded moment.

He squinted into the morning sun and then saw what was animating the men to talk so loudly and gesture wildly. He shook his head at the irony.

A laughing man in a tattered green ballcap, a gift from a farming equipment dealer several years ago, had dropped the tailgate on his truck as he waved at his friends to come over and see what he had.

In the back of the old pickup was a sturdy steel cage. It was strapped down securely but was shaking every few seconds from something slamming into the sides of the heavy wire mesh.

It was a small pig. A feral pig, black and crusted in beige mud. It squealed and dashed forward again and again, trying to get at the men and then escape. Glen could just make out the bloody snout and ears. The pig was desperate to get out of the cage. But it was futile. It was trapped and was soon going to be at the processor for butchering.

Glen was not in the mood to go over and look at the pig. Seeing it reminded him that his breakfast was not going to be quiet and peaceful this morning. He popped the door open to climb out of the cab, all 6 feet 4 inches of his lanky frame stretched up as he rolled his broad shoulders.

He reached in to grab his white cowboy hat from the back jump seat. As he was placing it on his graying red hair, in need of a good cutting, his cell phone buzzed and mooed like a cow. He shook his head, and a small smile danced on his face.

His daughter had changed his ringtone yet again.

He swiped his finger across the screen. “Yes, Smidgen, what did you forget?”

“Dad! Why do you think every time I call you, I need something?”

“Where did you leave it?”

“I might just want to say I love you!”

“It’s on the counter, right?”

“Yes, but I do love you.”

“I will drop your lunch off at the office.”

“Thanks! You are the best Dad ever! Leave it with Gloria. She has a little fridge and will put it in there. She is really cute and funny. You should get to know her better.”

Glen rolled his eyes as he reckoned his beautiful daughter, Cindy, was once again attempting to get him to interact with an available woman. “Right, I’ll go home, grab your lunch, bring it to school, make sure I leave it with Gloria, whom I have known since grade school, and stay and talk to her because I need to get to know her better.”

Cindy paused as she processed the fact that her ploy wasn’t working again. “Dad, don’t be a butt. Go say Hi to Gloria.”

“I will smidge. What’s for dinner?”

“Vegetarian Lasagna, Aunt Amy said your cholesterol is getting too high.”

“Why is Amy telling you what my blood work is? That’s my business.”

“Because Aunt Amy loves you and she’s family, so shut up and no bacon for breakfast!”

He closed his eyes and sighed. Ever since his wife died of cancer, five years ago, his sister Amy and his daughter had taken it upon themselves to mother him. Glen shook his head and looked up.

A large gathering of vultures was swinging in wide circles to the south. Dozens of them. He studied them and quickly decided he needed to take a drive over to the lower end of the county. That was too many birds for a dead cow. He looked over at the wrecked field and downed fence.

“… looking for his foot.”

“Dad?”

Glen blinked and returned to the moment. “Yeah, Smidge, what’s up?”

“Have you even been listening? You’re on a case or something, aren’t you?”

“No, not yet. But I’m about to be.”

Cindy groaned. “Dad! Dinner at 6, don’t be late. I have some friends coming over to study. Is that OK?”

Glen reached in and pulled a map out of the cab, and began to walk towards the Diner. “Sure, study. Good plan.”

“Please don’t forget to bring my lunch to school and give it to Gloria.”

“Gloria, got it.”

“Ahh! You are exasperating! I have to go! Dinner at 6! Be there!”

“Ok. Bye, Smidge.”

The phone beeped and went dark. Glen pushed through the door of Cat’s Pit Stop and was instantly bathed in the sound and fury of breakfast.

Sally smiled at Glen and raised her eyebrows. “Damn!” She thought to herself. “He is one solid piece of man. Those eyes!”

“Howdy, Sally. Can I just sit at the counter?”

“Of course, Glen.”

“Thanks. Looks extra busy today.”

“We always have room for another hungry tummy, Glen. Sorry to hear about…”

Glen put his hand on Sally’s and smiled crookedly. Sally felt a flutter in her chest as she made eye contact. He nodded and made his way to the counter to sit next to Del and Carl.

The noise level in Cat’s Pit Stop dropped to almost dead quiet as he slid into the well-worn stool. He could feel accusing eyes locking onto him as he picked up a menu and pretended to read.

Vivian swept her well-made-up eyes around the room and pursed her lips. She walked over to stand behind Glen and began pointing at the ranchers, contractors, and truck drivers, looking from table to table, fire in her eyes. Slowly, the conversation began to return to its normal babble, and the clacking of plates and scraping of silverware returned.

Viv nodded and moved back around the counter to stand in front of Glen. She smiled hard and winked, “Howdy, Glen honey. The usual?”

Glen laid the menu down and nodded. “No, Viv. I’m in the mood for something different. Waffles and coffee.” He looked at Carl and Del and then looked out of the window briefly. He fixed Viv with a steely-eyed stare. “No bacon.”