Stanley

What Ho Proles!

Two days! Two days! Two damnably devilish and downright despicable days!

Forgive my outburst, dear readers, but I would just like you to guess how long it has taken me to sort out the latest disaster to befall the fair village of C--- N---. It is the reason for my regrettable silence of the last couple of days and why, on this Sunday morning so thick with strawberry jam, I have yet to discard my pyjamas and I dictate this from the folds of my four-poster.

As you know, we Murgatroids are built for action; ours is a manly sinew primed for trouble. Yet when the danger comes lurking by the name of Stanley and happens to be in the shape of a prize Duroc-Jersey pig, then I believe you’ll begin to understand why this disaster I speak of was not one of those light breezy affairs solved in a blink of an animal’s eye.

Stanley, you see, is magnificent specimen of his breed; heavy on the hoof or indeed trotter, and with a top speed to match anything or anyone. He escaped from Mr. Jarvis’ yard late on Thursday night and as the news spread around the village on Friday morning, the Hall soon became overwhelmed by refugee families fleeing in fear of marauding pork. Being a good-hearted sort of chap, I gave them permission to camp out on the lawn and I asked Mrs. Priggs to provide them with hot tea and coffee at a damned reasonable price. I then set about organising search parties armed to the dentures with axes, picks, shovels, knives, crossbows… In fact, anything that might have the stopping of a pig in full flight.

No doubt you think it all a bit over the top but you should know that Mr. Jarvis prides himself on breeding the biggest, vilest, and most villainous porkers in the country. He claims their ferocity makes their meat all the more tender on account of a pig that riles the quickest has higher levels of juice upon the bone. Whether this is true or not, I am not one to judge, but I do know that the last time one of Jarvis’ porkers went sniffing free, the local A&E had to set up a triage to deal with the wounded.

Anyway, being a man who enjoys rampaging through the countryside on the hunt for villainous grub, I decided that I too would lead one of the search parties. It would be comprised of one part Murgatroid, one part his man, and the final part made up of Mr. Sedgewick who, being the local butcher, had a large stake in the recovery of the pig and is handy with the large cleaver he carries with him on all occasions.

We left the Hall that Friday afternoon and headed towards the river on the advice of Butcher Sedgewick who informed us that all pigs are attracted to water. Soon we were strolling along the stream and did so for much of the afternoon with no success as far as pigs go but with plenty of success in terms of pleasant rambling. As evening fell, we found ourselves in an idle little corner of the county where gossamers sail with motes lit by the low winter sunlight. The sound of the burbling brook was really quite delightful and I suggested to my fellows that we push on for an hour or two more, knowing that these pigs are sly creatures that love nothing more than nosing around at night.

It was down where the river meets Alder Brook that we found the poor creature. The porker appeared to have slipped down the embankment and couldn’t climb his way back up. It was a situation that had only worked to rouse his considerable ire to the point that he was squealing quite terribly.

I was not for taking any chances. We worked our way down the darkened bank and being the shooter in the party, I took the lead. Nor was I in any mood for making it a fair fight. I stopped a few feet above Stanley and levelled my gun, aiming for the fair point between his eyes. Squeezing the trigger, I knew I had only one chance. I would let him have both barrels and I would have given him more if we’d had any spare.

The explosion knocked me off my feet.

It took me a moment or two before I realised what happened. The gun had exploded in my hands! I could feel my face stinging with gunpowder burns and I quickly counted off ten fingers on two hands and found to my delight that slight scorching was the only damage. I was less delighted when I looked up and discovered that I had rolled down the embankments. I counted the two red glaring eyes at me from one large boar’s face.

I knew I was done for. I began to thank my maker for making my end such a dignified one and I closed my eyes waiting for the monstrous pig to hit me.

When it came, it was not as I expected. I felt something pull at my shoulders and in a moment I was lifted to my feet. I open my eyes to discover that My Man and Butcher Sedgewick had come to my rescue. As My Man diverted the attention of Stanley by dancing along the river bank, Sedgewick bustled my dazed self onto the old flat bottomed canal boat that had been left down there by the riverbank these last ten summers.

My Man soon joined us and I congratulated him for his quick thinking before we set about discussing what to do about our predicament. Stanley was now patrolling the bank around the barge and did not appear to be for moving along. Things had reached a point of impasse until My Man noted that Stanley was nibbling at the barge’s mooring. Alas, it was too late. Before we had chance to respond, the creature had cut us loose and were soon adrift, sailing into the darkness of the gently flowing river.

This is pretty much how things remained until mid-afternoon on Saturday when a small pleasure craft discovered the three of us waving desperately from the barge which had run aground somewhere near Puddleswich, twenty three miles from C--- N---. Affairs were quickly set in order, a rescue made, and arrangements made to get us back to the Hall. We discovered that another search party had discovered Stanley the following morning.

That is, alas, the end of the story and I must now close this rather poor apology of a narrative. My breakfast is made and I hear My Man approach.

I’m to have two nicely fried eggs and three rather delicious rashers of Stanley.