PIG {rated PG}

 street scene India (from the reverends files)


{rated PG}

The local Restaurant was the sort of place she was always dragging us into. Kate had a passion for getting down and eating like the natives while we were travelling thru Asia. It was alright for her. She had a cast iron gut and could eat anything anywhere, as long as it was vegetarian. In the depths of India she never knew a touch of dysentery. She would eat nameless things in congealed batter bought from filthy, diseased looking street-vendors, and never suffer the slightest gastric disturbance. In her quest for the ‘authentic’ she took us into places where the proprietors relied more upon Magic than Hygiene to ward off food poisoning. We once ate in a “cafe” where there were no plates or utensils, instead we ate off banana leaves, scooping the dhall & rice into our mouths with pieces of flat bread. Jim was similarly blessed with an sturdy constitution and would cheerfully eat anything as long as it had meat in it. As for me, I was sick the whole time while they stuffed themselves like pigs.

Kate’s current selection was a hole-in-the-wall sort of place. Literally. In this case the wall was a rusting corrugated-iron fence. We slipped thru a gap and found ourselves in a dusty sort of courtyard. Actually it didn’t look too bad; real tables and chairs and a sort of trellis provided shade and we had real plates this time. And you could watch this huge guy with coal-black skin stripped to the waist making the flat-bread by a roaring fire, sweating a waterfall.

We settled in and Kate and Jim ordered. By this time in our travels I had taken to living mainly on bananas. They were cheap, hygenic and easy to get and I just ate them whenever I had my doubts about the fare being offered.

Anyhoo they ordered, we ate. I experimented with nibbling a bit of the bread while sipping tea.We seemed to be getting a bit of attention but then we were the only white folks there and we were used to the phenomena of local curiosity. 

Eventually Jim stretched and made his way to the concrete block down the rear of the courtyard, discretely veiled by a ratty bamboo screen behind which, according to the signage, was the restaurant’s toilet. The patrons watched him walk the length of the restaurant, muttering amongst themselves in the local dialect.

“The natives seem restless”, I murmured to Kate.

“Don’t be so paranoid,” she hissed, “its embarrassing.”

At that moment we heard Jim’s voice shriek above the babble,

“Holy Jesus Fuck!!”, he screamed.

Then it sounded as though he was crying or laughing hysterically.

Kate and I looked at each other. I noticed the staff and some of the locals laughing and slapping each others shoulders, so we didn’t seem to be in any immediate threat, but at the same time no-one seemed to be rushing to Jim’s aid either.

A little while later Jim rejoined us and sat down. He looked like a man who’d suffered a concussion.

“A pig,” he said, staring blankly in front of him,” a pig licked my balls.”

We looked at him.

“..a pig licked my balls,” he repeated, “In the toilet.”


So I went to have a look inside the concrete cinder-block shed that served as the toilet.

As my eyes adjusted to the gloom it looked at first glance like the ubiquitous Asian style toilet I had come to know so well. That is to say there was a filthy, urine-soaked concrete floor with a small hole in the centre of the room. I had seen that same toilet in bus-stations and hotels and even on the fifteenth floor of a modern, western-style skyscraper. (Yes, despite the shiny, pretentious facade, and the pompous, crisp-suited clerical staff, the same old stinking hole-in-the-floor still lurked behind the “mens” door)

I peered cautiously into the hole.

A grimy pink face peered curiously back at me. (It probably wasn’t used to seeing people at that angle.) It gave a friendly snort.

Yes, I thought, there is a large pig in the toilet. We stared at each other. It was smeared with human faeces, but otherwise seemed happy enough.

I noticed I was still clutching a piece of flat-bread. I dropped it down the hole and the pig snapped it in mid air. It looked at me expectantly.

Then it sort of reared up and briefly stuck its snout through the hole, slobbering and snorting loudly, its enormous pink tounge schlupping the air. Startled I stepped back. Clearly piggy didn’t have much headroom down there.

I walked out thoughtfully and chatted briefly with the waiter.

Then I rejoined my friends.

“It licked my balls,” Jim was still saying. Pale faced and glassy eyed, he seemed to be stuck in a loop. It was clearly up to me to snap him out of it.

“Mate,” I told him,” you’re just lucky it didn’t eat them. The waiter told me the pigs sometimes develop a taste for testicles.”

Jim turned a little paler.

“Yes”, I continued,”they don’t encourage it anymore but back in the old days this part of the coast used to be famous for producing Eunuchs. Of course the European trade dropped right off since they stopped using castrati in their Operas,

but there’s still demand for Eunuchs amongst petty royalty in the Middle East, and Afghan warlords like to keep a few mincing around to give the place a little class when they’re holding court.”

“But why is it down there,”Kate whispered, “do the owners know?”

“Of course they know. It’s Recycling,” I explained, “It’s the perfect organic toilet. All very natural. They pen it down there and the pig recycles the customers’ wastes, and later of course they recycle the pig itself.”

“Recycle the pig,” she said, “what do you mean?”

“They serve it up as tomorrows menu and the Circle of Life is complete.. say,” I said , cheerfully peeling a banana, “did either of you eat the pork vindaloo?”

Jim started to retch, rose to his feet and made his way rapidly thru the Restaurant, but suddenly remembered what was waiting for him behind the bamboo screen, and changed direction, bolting through the gap in the corrugated iron wall, hands over his mouth..

“Pity,” I said, “the pig would probably appreciate a change of diet.”

Green of face Kate rose rapidly and followed Jim out the door.

So I was left to pay the bill, which was pretty unfair considering all I’d had to eat was a piece of bread, but fortunately the proprietor waived charging us. We’d provided him with far too much amusement.



The Reverend has regrettably been unable to find his picture of Piggie but has a dispatched a squad of assistants into the Archives in an attempt to retrieve this priceless artefact. We wish them godspeed and send our prayers out to their families.


fossils wiv title


And for those in the geographical vicinity of Brisbane, we post the following Public Service announcement..

Humpty 1 


The Kurilpa Poets Easter Eggstravaganza


Sunday 31st March, 2013, starting 2pm


The Olde Croquet Club, 91Cordelia St., West End

on the edge of Musgrave Park


Feature Poet of the Month:GERALD KEANEY!

One of Brisbanes most challenging and confrontational poets, we are proud to present his heretical versifications & iconoclastic rantings.

and also?

Our fabulously informal OPEN MIC section!

All welcome. No fish-bowl. The only time limit is our boredom threshold!

and of course?


This month journeyman busker, MATT THE MUSICIAN will be setting the mood with the righteous sounds of his fire-red slide guitar!

and I suppose?

the REVEREND HELLFIRE as MC will be setting a suitably solemn & spiritual tone as befits the occasion.

and are?

Tea, coffee, & nibblies provided as part of the price!

and just for laughs?

Join our traditional Easter “Poetic-Egg Hunt!”Held at intermission (Follow the clues, complete the poem, win the prize.)

how much?

A mere $5 for the employed/$2 for members and the poor. Donations welcome. If you’re community minded bring a plate/bottle.

details/reviews & more?


Contact: kurilpapoets@yahoo.com.au



The Reverend Hellfire is a recovering performance poet and an ordained Minister of the Church of Spiritual Humanists AND the Church of the Universe.

Has good intentions.



~ by reverendhellfire on March 24, 2013.

3 Responses to “PIG {rated PG}”

  1. Loved the PIG story! Seemed absolutely authentic, but then, I’ve never been in India.

    • I deny every word!
      Everything i write is fiction! Fiction I tell you, I’ve never been near the place.
      O All right guv, you got me, fair cop, it is the truth, I merely polished it a little for public consumption.Like an apple in a roast pigs mouth.
      well..I might have been lying to Jim about the eunuchs

  2. Happy as a pig in shit!

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