Gregory Cradle woke up one morning to the sound of his alarm clock and his dog barking at it. Feeling particularly rested, he leaped out of bed, with enthusiasm for the day brimming in him. After letting the dog out he brushed his teeth and showered, getting ready for another Thursday at work. After fitting himself in a blue pinstriped shirt and a red dotted tie he combed back his blonde shoulder-length hair. Looking in the mirror he gave himself a self-satisfied nod of approval and skipped out of his apartment.
Driving to work is a routine all by itself for Mr. Cradle, for he requires a constant flow of music from his favorite band, The Royal Guardsmen. While listening, he enjoys gently nodding his head and tapping the steering wheel, smiling a big white smile in the meantime. He usually waves at neighboring drivers if in good enough spirits, such as today. When he finally arrives at his office, he has to step out of the car and open the gate blocking the entrance to the dirt road that stretches into the forest. He drives down the bumpy road, a smile still plastered on his face. The columns of trees hide the early morning sun as he glides into the woods.
Mr. Cradle parks in front of his office, steps out of his car, and skips to the pigpen right next to the small shack. He halts next to the fence and smiles at his prize pigs, scanning the cluster of them for his favorite one, the oldest and most fully grown. There you are, he whispered to himself. Mr. Cradle’s number one pig, which he so lovingly named, God, looms over the rest of the pigs, its large, thick rings of fat making him mountainous in comparison to the other pigs. Mr. Cradle unlocked the fence gate and entered the pen, gently pushing past his beloved trophies to get to his proudest achievement. He reached the pink fat flesh of that four-legged wonder and embraced God. Mr. Cradle then led the animal out of the trophy case to the scale and makeshift measurer, which was simply the wall of the shack. The wall was covered in what would appear to be graffiti at first, but upon further inspection, it was tattooed with the height number of over a dozen different pigs. In the center was the tallest measurement of 5’10.
Mr. Cradle led his treasured pig to the wall and hoisted the pig onto his hind legs. With one hand he pulled out a piece of chalk from his rear pocket and drew a line above the pig’s head. He cradled the majestic creature back to his natural four-legged posture, pulled measuring tape out of his front pocket, and measured his way up to the line. 2’11...4’5… 5’7… the final height was 5’8. Mr. Cradle’s face contorted into a concoction of both rage and disappointment. Two inches off, he gruffed. He stormed into the shack and came out with a shotgun. He pointed it at the animal’s face and cocked the weapon. However, he froze there and stared off into space for a few minutes and regained his winning smile. I can fix those two inches. It’s not your fault, its mine. Your perfect, I am not. Mr. Cradle ran back into the shed and came out with a saw. I will cut off my impurity. He sat next to the pig, removed his shoes, and rolled up his pant legs. He then proceeded to saw off his feet. The saw got stuck two thirds the way in on the first foot, so he had to twist the foot off before moving onto the next one. After removing them he crawled into the shed.
Several hours later, as the sun just began to set, he exited the shack, with his stumps stapled shut. He forced himself to stand up. He leaned against the wall. He was now 5’8. I am now close to your perfection. Mr. Cradle embraced God one last time before leading him into the shed with him. Inside the shed, he began his work. He sawed off the head of the pig, much to its disapproval. He then scraped the intestines and innards out of it through the opening of the pig’s neck. Next, the head was emptied of its inhabitants. Mr. Cradle gazed into the empty eye sockets of God and smiled. He crowned himself with God’s face and began to sew the mask onto himself. The stitches were finished, so he stripped his clothes off and slipped into the still bloody body of the pig. Blood spilled out as he buried himself deeper into the skinsuit. He pushed his arms through the barricading flesh remaining in the pig’s front legs and tore his hands out, breaking through the hooves. He slid his knees into the hind legs. It then stood up on Its hind legs and waddled over to the toolbox in the corner, pulled out the staple gun waddled over to a wood table, and grabbed the saw resting on it. It sawed-off Its left hand first, then stapled it shut. Its right hand was a slightly more difficult process. Several hours of flimsy creativity with the saw led to Its right hand dangling by a thread of skin. It aggressively swung the hand up and swatted it onto the floor repeatedly until it went flying off. The stump bled profusely, the staple gun was useless now, but that meant nothing to It anymore. It crawled outside the shed. It was now well into the evening. The darkness embraced It, It felt that embrace. It wallowed in that embrace. It was happy. I have the body of a pig.
