The pig! The pig! Is he safe?

–

I’ve managed to escape. I don’t know how long I was trapped in that basement, but I managed to free myself. My head hurts. I think I was drugged.

–

Wait, that’s not chloroform. That’s PBR.

–

Where am I? Fernando is gone. I managed to hold them off long enough to allow him to escape. That damn pig didn’t want to leave me behind, but he had no choice. That pig is one hell of a shot with an Uzi.

–

The PLF. Damn it! They got away! I think I was in that basement for…days? Weeks? I don’t know how they found me.

–

Wait, I know how they found me, I knocked on their door. They shouldn’t have listed their address on their Facebook page. I demanded to see El Cerdo. When they played dumb, I shoved them aside and drew my .45. This got their attention. But someone hit me on the back of the head. As my consciousness faded, I heard a voice.

“Four legs good, two legs bad.”

–

I woke up in a pool of my own blood. At first I thought I was alone. The room was dark, dank. A basement, most likely. My hands were cuffed behind my back.

I heard the sound of trotters clicking on the cement floor. A voice assured me that everything would be okay. The lock on my cuffs was picked. My hands were free.

The sound of a match scraping. A cigarette was lit. It was Fernando. He had been here for days. If he couldn’t escape, how was I going to?

–

Over the next few days we formulated a plan. I pretended to be sick, and when the guards came in, Fernando would jump them. Sure, the plan seemed too simple, but it worked like a charm. Two guards entered to investigate my cries. Fernando made short order of them. Tossed me one of their guns. He took the Uzi.

–

It was a bloodbath. We shot our way out of the damn place, side to side, brother to brother, swine to blogger. We escaped in a Maserati that someone had parked on the street, and that the pig quickly hotwired. We pulled away just as the PLF headquarters exploded in a fireball that engulfed much of the block.

But we were followed.

–

He let me off at the corner of 20th and Burnside. We were going to split up. but as I stepped out of the car, there was the sound of gunfire. The car was riddled with bullets, but the pig and I manged to run for it to the nearest train.

Fernando hopped on first, with me in close pursuit, but just as I reached the doors my legs were kicked out from under me. Fernando came to help, but the doors closed on him, and he was taken away to the airport.

I was left to face my assailant.

El Cerdo.

–

“The future is ours!” he proclaimed, waving an AK-47 in my direction. “The fascist state of two legged carnivores is at an end. This is only the beginning!”

But while he was speaking, I was reaching for the knife in my boot.

El Cerdo raised his rifle and pointed at my heart.

“Farewell, human!” he spat.

I braced myself. “Hey, El Cerdo!

“Four legs are good, but two legs are better!”

I threw the knife. He must have been faster than I thought, because I never miss. The knife sank into his shoulder like a ham sandwich. El Cerdo squealed, dropped his gun and scampered off.

And I was left alone.

–

And Fernando is safe. That is all that matters. Perhaps I’ve judged both he and McGone too harshly. This experience has opened the eyes of the Idea of Progress. No more will I bear ill will towards a fellow blogger. We’re in this crazy Blogonetosphere together.

Except for Grant Miller.