Somewhere between inebriation and guilt, teetering betwixt futility and outrage Matt’s head swam upstream. Countenance troubled, he paid his tab, the tip carelessly large. Wandering into the street he couldn’t shake the image of stoic horses and irate pigs taking to the streets around him.

Chemically unfettered his imagination ran wild. He could see vividly the scene of John strapped to a chair surrounded by men in suits, eerie music, and gleaming instruments of destruction. Try as he might, he could not shake the visual, nor could he get rid of the representation of himself drinking blithely in the corner.

Porcine intellectuals taunted him. Yapping sycophant dogs nipped at the heels of his conscience. Equestrian nobility goaded him.

By the time he got home, his mind had set a sure course. He also had a simultaneous craving for bacon and urgent need to vomit. Neither came to fruition, leaving him to fall asleep on his couch, dreams filled with livestock…

…livestock, resistance, and rebellion.