"Boys, I’m buying this round," Pig said.

It was Friday night on the outskirts of Light Lanes, Missouri, and Pig had come into some money. Seems his uncle, the one that had survived double duty in Vietnam, had passed on, and Pig, being the only relative that had taken the time to get to know Uncle Rich, was the sole beneficiary. Luckily for the patrons of the Eagle’s Nest, Pig wasn’t against sharing.

"Pig, you are one lucky sumbitch," Randy Curnutee said with a mouthful of the best liquor the Eagle’s Nest had to offer, which wasn’t saying much. People didn’t show up at the Eagle’s Nest for the quality, just the company. It might be a dive, but it was a dive you could relax at without worrying about some tweaked-out mama’s boy trying to throw down.

"Be that as it may, I think you’re the lucky sumbitch at this moment," Pig laughed. "God knows there ain’t a line at the bar waitin’ to buy you a drink."

"Now Pig, there ain’t no reason to hurt a man’s feeling, just because you’re rich and powerful now."

As if a man named Pig had to be schooled on the matters of hurt feelings.

Pig couldn’t remember the last time someone had called him Harvey, his birth name. Funny thing was, he had been painfully scrawny as a boy, so much that his breastbone protruded out from his chest like a bookmark to remind the other kids in school to poke at it. The school janitor had made a habit of rapping his knuckle against it every time they crossed paths in the hallway. Pig had often prayed that someday he’d grow out, fill out with muscle, like Uncle Rich during his prime.

Pig’s uncle had blown up during the last few years of his life due to inactivity and age, and when it came time to put him in the ground there wasn’t a coffin that could hold him. Someone had donated a piano box to the funeral home, in which Uncle Rich now rested.

Pig himself stood about five-ten, a decent size for a man of twenty-eight. Unless you weigh around two-eighty, which he did.

Thing was, people didn’t call him Pig because of his size. Most of the working class in Light Lanes happened to be overweight. It wasn’t like he was much different than the Flanders, or the Penny’s. The name came about because of his ferocious appetite.

Pig could drink anyone under the table, and out-eat anybody by a long shot. Andre the Giant was known to have been able to consume ungodly amounts of food and drink, and while Pig wasn’t quite up to that standard, he came close. He knew he was lucky to be only two-eighty.

Pig wasn’t really greedy; he just didn’t know when to stop. His friends at the bar, mostly his coworkers from the boat factory, thought pretty highly of him. Most of them had a nickname that was ninety percent ribbing and ten percent affection, so Pig eventually got used to his moniker, knowing it was just one of those things.

He took in his surroundings, smiling at the familiar sights that reminded him that this was home. There on the floor was an old bloodstain, all that was left of a brawl from last Christmas, a right-perfect throw down that had ended in hugs. On the wall was old man Shiner’s picture, a life-long patron who had passed away last year from lung cancer. The memories of this place was good mixed with bad, but still managed to bring about a warmness in Pig.

The door swung open letting in a handful of fireflies, and a middle aged couple entered, all smiles. They were obviously from Upper Hills, where no working class man or woman could be found. Reagan supporters, no doubt. They had money and they weren’t afraid to show it. Spooley, who was sitting close to Pig, looked them over and leaned close to his ear.

"See them two?"

"How could I miss ‘em? Probably just stopped in to amuse themselves. Look at all us dirty bums."

"We should kill them and take all their money. Hide their bodies out back, in the sinkhole."

Pig almost choked on his beer.

"Goddamnit, Spooley," Pig stuttered. Spooley had already turned back to his notepad, where he was jotting something down.

Spooley was a decent worker, but he knew he wouldn’t be forever. A working man breaks down eventually, and Spooley was built like Ichabod Crane, his ears the largest thing on his body, always present under his jet black hair. He had taken up writing about a year ago, as a second career option, and had a bad habit of asking ridiculous questions just so he could see people’s reactions and apply it to his characters. Makes the dialogue more realistic, he would say, in his defense.

"One of these days, Spooley, you’re gonna ask the wrong person a question like that."

They had been celebrating his uncle’s life by using his money to drink themselves under the table. Pig had shown some restraint, determined to reflect on his uncle’s life a bit before the inevitable blackout came.

"Boys, could we shut our liquor-soaked lips for a minute, and talk about why we’re here?" he said, climbing up on an empty table. Despite his size, Pig had always been surprisingly agile.

The Eagle’s Nest went quiet, and Pig looked around at all the smiling faces, most of who had known Uncle Rich. The others had only heard tales of him, but showed respect just the same.

"Boys and girls. We’re all shitfaced right now, thanks to the man we knew as Uncle Rich, who is reigning somewhere in Hell right now. Let’s give him a mighty thanks!"

The patrons all hooted, and started a chant for Uncle Rich, whose body was somewhere nearby, deep underground. Pig hoped that he could hear the noise somehow. The middle-aged couple sat quietly in the corner booth, watching the celebration.

Randy heaved himself onto the table and sat between Pig’s feet. "He wasn’t my uncle, but I’ll be damned if I didn’t think of him as my blood. Ain’t too many men I’d want to consider family, outside of my own."

Randy looked up at Pig, his face struggling not to break. Pig smiled back, and held up his mug. "Here, here," he said.

Pig took a large gulp before speaking, the whiskey making his neck clench. "If there was one thing Uncle Rich would approve of at a time like this, it would be getting down in his name. Drinks are on me!"

"To Rich," they all agreed.

Several drinks later, Pig slid off his barstool, and went looking for the men’s room.

There wasn’t really a public restroom in the Eagle’s Nest, but the owners had never had a problem with Pig using it. He paid good money to get drunk at their establishment.

Pig stumbled past a stack of crates labeled PERISHABLE with a magic marker, already fumbling with his pants. He didn’t see the middle-aged man until he had bumped into him, knocking the man’s glasses off.

"Dang, I’m sorry…"

The man bent and retrieved his spectacles. He studied them for a moment, searching for scratches before setting them back on the bridge of his nose.

"It’s okay, there seems to be no damage. Excuse me, but are you the one they call "Pig?"

Pig’s vision un-blurred long enough for him to realize it was the fat cat from Upper Hills. Having his friends call him that name was one thing, but some asshole outsider?

"I’m sorry if it’s rude. I’ve just heard a lot about you. You’re something of a hero around here, yes?"

It could have been the alcohol affecting his ego, but no one had ever called him a hero before. Uncle Rich was a hero. He was just one of the guys.

"I’m no hero. Look, I need to piss, ‘kay?"

He tried to push past the man, but the man grabbed his arm with a surprisingly firm grip. Maybe it was just the alcohol again, distorting things.

"It would mean a lot to me if I could introduce you to my wife," he said.

Pig looked the man over. He was in his thirties, thinning brown hair, with small eyes sitting behind his glasses. His pressed suit probably cost more than Pig’s two-week paycheck.

"Fine, where is she? If I end up peeing on her, I’m putting the blame on you," he said, pushing his finger into the man’s chest to emphasize his claim.

He followed the man outside, taking the nearest exit to hurry things up. Sometimes a man couldn’t even relieve himself without having to put up with some bullshit. No one saw Pig leave, most of them too soused to pay attention.

He led Pig to a brand new 1987 Buick that was humming like a pet made of American steel. A woman was sitting in the driver’s seat, giving him a thin lipped smile. She was more handsome than pretty, her short dark hair revealing a streamlined neck.

"Why hello," she said, and before Pig could get the words out the world went dark.

Pig awoke to pain, his face throbbing. It took him a moment to realize he just had ice water thrown in his face.

He was in a room, a very large room, complete with a chandelier. This would’ve been a nice surprise, if he wasn’t tied to a sturdy-built chair, his hands fastened.

The middle-aged couple stood in front of him, both wearing black leather gloves, which looked funny next to their white dress clothes. They were staring at him like he was an animal.

"Ah, you’re awake now. Water really does bring a person out of a deep sleep."

"Poor thing looks thirsty," the woman said. "Why dontcha give him something?"

The man refilled the glass, and leaned down to carefully guide it into Pig’s mouth. He wanted to spit it back in the man’s face, but his throat was so dry he couldn’t help but greedily swallow it. He could still glare at the man, which he did.

"There, that’s better. Now, I bet you’re wondering why we’ve invited you into our home."

"What the hell did you do to me?"

"I subdued you as gently as I could while you were staring at my lovely wife’s smile."

Her neck, not her smile. Pig had a thing for necks.

The woman blushed, and hung her small hand on her husband’s back. "Oh, I didn’t do anything."

Pig had heard enough. "Okay, what the hell’s going on? Don’t make me ask again."

The man stopped smiling. "Your money, of course. We need it and you’re going to tell us where it is."

"What you need my money for? Looks to me like you’ve got it pretty good here. Did Randy put you up to this? Cooley?"

The man suddenly slapped his wife so hard that she hit the floor.

Pig was speechless. He watched as the woman crawled to her feet, wearing no expression, just a slight red print on her face.

"Where’s the money?" the man growled. He had broken into a sweat almost as fast as he had struck his wife. Before Pig could answer, the man struck her again. She made no move to stop him.

"Jesus, stop it!" Pig had experienced the occasional violence as a kid, but not like this. He had a knack for staying out of trouble and wanted to keep it that way. He also had a policy against hitting women.

The man started to hit her again, but Pig’s words stopped him. "Okay, okay! I’ll take you to it."

"No, you’ll tell us where it is."

"Wouldn’t do any good. You need me to get it for you. The location’s in my head, I can’t just tell you."

Not really true.

The couple looked at each other. "Okay."

With that, they both headed off into another room, the man pulling the woman after him. She turned and smiled at Pig as they disappeared behind a door.

He immediately began pulling at his binds. His legs were already free, so there was that. The couple was full of surprises, but one thing was for sure in Pig’s mind: they weren’t blue collar. Probably couldn’t tie a decent knot if they wanted to. Leaning to the side, he used his weight to put pressure on one side while the other loosened somewhat. He soon had one arm free.

With the binds on the floor, Pig considered his options. He could flee, get somewhere safe and call the cops. These people had money, he was sure; they were just being greedy. They’d probably find a good lawyer and get a slap on the wrist, at the most.

Or he could confront them now. The bastard deserved to be knocked around at the very least, for his show of abuse.

He edged his way to the white door, measuring each step. He slid his worker’s boots off to keep the noise down. The door was slightly ajar, and he put an eye to the gap.

They were making love on their kitchen table, the woman with two handfuls of his hair.

She must’ve forgiven him real quick.

Had the whole thing been a show to manipulate him? Bastards.

Something came over him, and before he could stop himself he had kicked the door in, almost off its hinges. The couple scrambled to cover themselves.

"You think this is funny? Kidnapping is a felony, and ya’ll in here getting off on it?"

There was a selection of kitchen knives nearby. The man’s eyes were no longer calm, darting to and from the sharp objects.

"Don’t even think about it," Pig said, just as it occurred to him that he had no weapon of his own. He should’ve armed himself before interrupting their little party.

The man bit his lip and stayed his hand for a moment. Pig almost relaxed until the man’s eyes went wide, a lucid look to them. Things were about to go south.

He dived, grasping the largest wooden handle, and drew out an even larger blade. Pig rushed to meet him, no plan in mind. His foot hit something wet on the tile, and before he knew it, Pig was airborne.

His ascent threw him into the man’s kneecap, which bent in a direction it wasn’t meant to. Pig crashed into a cabinet door, shattering it, and the man fell forward, his leg flopping to the side. He came down on his knife.

Pig pushed the splintered cabinet door off his head and before he could rise to his feet a piercing scream assaulted his ears.

The woman was on her knees next to her husband, who was bleeding out on the pristine floor. She was rocking back and forth, clutching his shirt with both hands.

I didn’t kill him, Pig thought.

He tried to inch out of the room, past the body, which was the only open pathway. He had almost made it past the grisly scene when the woman suddenly reached out and grabbed his ankle, squeezing her long nails into it until he cried out. She gritted her teeth at him.

"You don’t know what you’ve done," she said.

"I know you brought this upon yourself," he said, as coldly as he could manage. With that, he pulled away from her and made his way out the front door.

He hadn’t been to Upper Hills since he was a teenager out bashing mailboxes. He headed in the direction he thought would take him to the Eagle’s Nest, where he could make the call. He wasn’t what you’d call a woodsman, but he could make his way through a good briar patch without too many scrapes.

He stayed off the road, just in case the crazy woman tried to run him down. She looked plenty pissed when he left, and his leg still stung from her scratches.

Upper Hills wasn’t exactly hated by Pig and his friends. But if you wanted to be considered a man of any fortitude, you ventured at least once into the territory, and caused some mischief. It was just a class thing. Every man at the Eagle’s Nest had set off some cherry bombs, or egged a car, or any sort of nonsense at least once in their life. It was good natured fun. Not just the boys, either. The ladies of Light Lanes had their share of fun too.

Pig never took to wearing a watch, but he guessed it was somewhere between one and two. The cicadas were in full orchestral swing, letting the world know it was theirs at the moment.

His stomach was putting on a circus act. He couldn’t remember much about the night before he was hit on the head, but he knew he had been drinking. A lot.

It was almost morning by the time he recognized his surroundings. Just below the hill was the Eagle’s Nest, the parking lot near empty. The owner would be scratching up something akin to breakfast by now.

He pushed in the side door, and made his way to the bathroom, sweat pouring off his face. He cupped the faucet’s offering and put it to his mouth. Then he cleaned his face.

He stepped out and almost ran into Randy, who sometimes helped stock the Eagle’s Nest.

"Holee shit. What the hell are you doing here, Pig?"

"You wouldn’t believe me if I told you. Be that as it may, I need to use the phone. Then I’ll fill you in."

"Well I’m sure you have your side of the story, but you best be turning yourself in."

Pig scoffed. "Turning myself in? What are you on about?"

Randy hunched over and lowered his voice. "Did you really kill a city council member?"

Pig’s breath went away. "City council?"

"The cops were already here. Said you stabbed to death that bigwig who was here last night. Now, I saw you leave with ‘em…figured you might be up to something kinky, but…"
"Randy! I didn’t kill anyone! They fucking kidnapped me, tried to get me to give ‘em Uncle Rich’s money. Bastard fell on a knife and I got the hell outta there."

Randy was quiet for a moment. "Well—that ain’t what the news is saying. The widow says you attacked her. Got cuts all over her body."

Pig felt his life draining away. Who was going to believe a blue collar slob over an Upper Hills housewife? The bitch was trying to cover her tracks. By the look in her eye, he wouldn’t be surprised if she had cut herself up to back up her story.

"Randy, you gotta believe me. They hit me in the head. Look, I got the bruise!"

He parted his wet hair back for Randy, who eyed it with a grimace. "Yea, I see it. Look, I believe you, don’t worry. But it ain’t me you gotta worry about. You need to do something fast, before she buries you, partner."

Pig knew he was speaking the truth. What to do about it was another thing altogether.

The next morning Pig had a price on his head.

The widow was offering more money than Uncle Rich had given him in his will. Which made the situation even more confusing to Pig—if she had so much money, why did they go to all that trouble to rip off a guy like him? Was she that greedy?

Randy was letting Pig hide out at his place, until things blew over. If they ever did. Murder wasn’t a common problem in Light Lanes. There had been disappearances, such-and-such leaving his wife, and so on, but nothing like this.

Randy didn’t have a working TV, so Pig passed the time listening to the local radio station. His name came up every hour, along with a sound bite of the widow, sobbing and asking for justice. He was barely paying attention to the silk-voiced announcer when the phone rang.

No one called Randy’s house. It wasn’t that people didn’t like him—he was just one of those people you never called. You could always find him at the bar if you needed him.

Pig answered the phone, figuring it was Randy, calling to tell him about a news report he’d already heard.

"Hey Randy."

There was no immediate answer.

"Randy?"

A soft voice answered him.

"Listen. Randy told me about your situation. I’m a journalist. You give me your story, and I’ll get it out there, help you clear your name."

Randy had spilled the beans to some reporter? Trying to get into her pants, no doubt.

"How do I know I can trust you?"

"I need a story. This is the biggest thing to ever hit Light Lanes. I need you, you don’t need me. That good enough for you?"

The voice was even, never raising pitch. Pig knew if he said no she’d use him for another story, one he wouldn’t like so much. Pissing off a reporter would not be a good tactic right now.

"Okay. Where can we meet?"

"Down by the river. Fish aren’t doing much this year, should be safe."

"What’s your name?"

"Kim."

The phone clicked dead.

Randy hadn’t come home by nightfall, so Pig set out on foot towards the river. There was a good hiking trail through the woods behind Randy’s house that led to the river. He borrowed one of Randy’s hunting jackets, and pulled the camo hood over his head. Just in case.

Pig had good memories of the river. His father used to take him here, try to teach him how to fish. He was never any good at it, but they went every weekend anyway. You’ll get better, his father would tell him. Pig had only given up on it after his parents went out in a car wreck.

He made his way down the embankment, and set off alongside the riverbed. No signs of life, just like the reporter had indicated. Pig wondered if Kim was attractive or not.

He decided against walking any further; let her come to him. He was the fugitive, not her. He pushed aside a cluster of rocks and sat down.

"Mr. Pig?"

Mister Pig? That was a new one. He turned his head to see a small man with glasses holding a pistol on him.

"Who the hell are you?"

"I’m here to collect you," the man said. "The reward."

Something was familiar about his voice.

"You’re…"

"Yes, I’m Kim. Sorry I had to tell you a fib like that. People tell me I sound like a woman on the phone. I use it to my advantage whenever I can."

The voice was only slightly more masculine in person. Pig couldn’t believe it. Was this really how he was going to go down?

"I was hoping you’d be more fetching," he said.

Kim frowned. "You’re not in a good position to be making jokes. Do you know how many times I’ve had to put up with people like you? Telemarketers, even family members calling me Ma’am? Catching you is going to get me some well-deserved respect."

"Maybe you shouldn’t be calling yourself "Kim." Probably doesn’t help your cause."

The man stepped closer and pressed the cold point against the back of Pig’s head. "We need to start walking now," he said.

He forced Pig to walk until they reached a hiking trail, one that was well overgrown, which Pig decided was more to his advantage. Kim must be ignorant of the more accessible path; anyone with any sense knew the riverside woods weren’t a good place to linger. The hayfields nearby had a lot to do with the steady population of copperheads that was killed in the area every year.

"Move it," Kim said. The command was laughable coming from such a man. Pig needed to remove the gun from the equation. Wasn’t much else keeping him here, he figured.

He took a big step forward, pretending to trip and roll down a steep section. The rolling part came easy for Pig; it used to be a game he’d play as a child. First one to the bottom wins.

He ended up next to a dead tree, overgrown with sticky vines. He grabbed his ankle and cried out. Kim skidded down the hill and pointed the gun at him.

"Get up!" he shouted, his voice quaking.

"I can’t…I think it’s broken…"

"Do you want to die here?" The man was trying his best to be intimidating. "I’ll have to shoot you if you don’t get up!"

"Okay, okay. Look, I just need your help, to push it back into place. You know, like the Lethal Weapon movies? ‘Cept it’s my leg an’ all."

Kim looked around nervously. His glasses kept slipping down his nose, whereas he would push them back up with a small finger, leaving his nose black with dirt and sweat. "I don’t…"

"Look, I don’t wanna die here either. If we stay here much longer…well, there’s gotta be some copperheads out lookin’ for food."

"Copperheads? You mean snakes?"

"Yep. My cousin was killed by one. One bite, that’s all it took. Just need you to push down on my ankle, pop it back in. I can’t manage alone."

The man closed his eyes, as if he was wishing he’d never got himself into such a mess. "Okay," he said, sounding much like he did on the phone.

He slid the pistol into his ass crack and bent down, pressing both hands on Pig’s ankle.

"Okay, push," Pig said.

Kim took a deep breath and pressed down just as Pig rolled to the side, and grabbed his head with both hands, pushing his face into the moist dirt. Kim’s arms flailed, trying to reach for the gun in the small of his back. Pig couldn’t get to his feet just yet, and wrestled with the man the best he could. Kim wasn’t very strong, but he was so slippery that Pig could barely hold on. The mud wasn’t helping.

"No, no!" the man was shrieking.

Pig focused all of his strength on Kim’s head, using it to push himself to his feet, while pressing the man’s face deep into the mud. Soon there was nothing but faint gurgling noises coming from the brown soup.

Kim was down. Pig pulled his face from the mud, which produced a grotesque sucking noise. He was still breathing, but he wouldn’t be awake anytime soon.

Pig started to flee the scene, but traveled only a few yards before trudging back. He grabbed the man’s pistol and fled.

Spooley was full of questions.

"When the man was bleeding out, did he say anything?"

"I couldn’t hear because the woman was screaming in my ear."

"Ah, that’s good," Spooley said, jotting down more notes.

Pig had come to Spooley because he had nowhere else to go. Randy’s place was too risky now. Kim had found out he was there somehow. Pig suspected Randy had let something slip while soused. But Pig was here to see Spooley for more than just good hospitality.

"Can you do it or not? You do this for me and I’ll give you all the details. For your story."

Unlikely.

Spooley closed his notebook and walked over to a mass pile of old radios and police scanners. "Should be a piece of cake. If you really think it’s a good idea."

It wasn’t a good idea. But it was the only one he had.

The garden was the nicest Pig had ever seen. Full of every flower imaginable, each color sectioned off by tiny wooden fences. Lots of love and attention undoubtedly went into it.

Pig stepped on as many flowers as he could.

The house overlooking the garden was quite large. When Pig had first escaped from it, he hadn’t had a chance to really take in its beauty. He wasn’t here for beauty now, but the sleek side paneling and pea gravel pathways made him feel at ease.

Pig had never been one for breaking and entering, but he’d seen it done enough times to get the gist of it. The cellar door was his best bet, so he went to work on the latch until a satisfying break was heard.

The cellar was night and day compared to the upstairs. An endless corridor of dingy storage spaces, stacked high with items that had long been neglected. The dust was thick, with only a few obvious pathways where human feet had recently left their mark. One of these pathways led to a stack of clothes and various watches. The clothes didn’t fit the couples’ style, flannel shirts and worker’s jeans. Pig had an idea what that meant.

There were two staircases leading up. One was dirtier than the rest. Pig took the less popular one.

The door was unlocked, and Pig opened it slowly. The lights were off. Pig hoped the widow was sleeping, but she was probably still awake, plotting his downfall.

The room was all pipes, the waterworks of the house. He made his way into the living room, leaving his boots on this time. If things went bad, he was going to die with his boots on.

Music was playing somewhere upstairs. It was faint, but Pig could tell it wasn’t his type of music. Lounge music, or something. He’d rather be hearing "Bonzo Goes to Bitburg" at the moment, or anything from the Ramones. They had been Uncle Rich’s favorite.

Pig was learning that he was easy to get the drop on. The widow had been hiding in the kitchen, and was now only a few feet away from him, pistol aimed at the back of his head.

"You came back," she said, clearly surprised.

Pig turned to face her, sitting down on the carpeted staircase. "Yep," he said.

"It’s all I wanted, you know. For you to come back. I didn’t really want anyone else to get you. I was worried someone else would get to kill you."

"You don’t have to kill me. I’ve brought you the money. It’s outside."

Pig knew it wasn’t about the money anymore. He hadn’t brought a cent with him. The money was on its way elsewhere.

She smiled. "I don’t want your money anymore. Telling my story on the news was much more satisfying than ripping off a loser like you."

She stepped closer, her legs spread apart for balance. "I’m going to write a book about you, Pig. About how you tried to finish the job."

"Ain’t my job. I never got paid a dime, why would I want to finish it? I actually wanted to tell you that you’re not my type. If I hadn’t been drunk, you sure as hell wouldn’t have got me like you did."

"Oh, I think we would have."

"Also, I know you think it was your smile, but it weren’t. It was your neck. I think I know why I was so transfixed by it…"

She waited for him to finish, frowning.

"I think I knew that someday I’d wanna put my hands around it and squeeze. But—I’m a gentleman, so I’m gonna leave now. Just wanted you to know you ain’t nothing special."

Pig was standing as she fired, the first bullet hitting him in the ribs. He sat back down, his breath gone, and gave her the best smile he could manage. She fired again, the slug hitting him in the cheek. She fired until the pistol was clicking empty.

Pig was dead.

The widow stood over him, smiling. The others had been fun, but this was actually personal. Satisfactory. She had enjoyed the game. It was probably too risky to try this kind of thing again, especially with Joseph gone. They had always shared their fun. This one she’d had all to herself.

She bent down to inspect the holes she had made in his plump carcass. She poked him with the gun, watching his fat quake slightly, which made her giggle like she was twelve again. She saw blood, lots of blood. But there was something else.

A thin black wire was running down his chest and into his pants. She cringed for a moment before unbuckling his pants, and hoisted them down. There was a small transmitter at the end of the rainbow.

She didn’t know it, but Spooley—a man she would never meet—had listened to everything she had said. Along with any police that had their scanner tuned to channel 56. The connection had broadcast everything. Spooley had wired up Pig to do just that, at his request.

The widow didn’t understand exactly what the wire meant, but she knew it wasn’t good. It occurred to her that she had had enough fun, probably the most she’d ever have. She sat down in Pig’s blood and put the gun to her chin.

The Eagle’s Nest was buzzing, more than usual. Before meeting with the widow, Pig had put into writing what to do with his money. Every cent went to the bar and its patrons. The people of Light Lanes, and some of Upper Hills, could hear the chanting all night long, and the next. They drunk to their hero, a man named Pig, until they ran out of his money.