LET ME IN

Little Piggy thought of war as being the consummate thief. Made her feel that everything in life was temporary. Family. Friends. Colleagues. Victory and defeat.

As an embattled soldier of eight years in the war against wolves, her motto had become, "There is no victory in war. It adds nothing, but only takes things away."

That included every shred of Little Piggy's femininity. And that was a shame. As she stared at the porcine figure seated across from her, she took note that those tinted scholarly glasses hid a great-looking hog and a potentially great fuck.

But he was too focused on other matters to take heed of anything else, much less her. Who could blame him? It was too damned noisy and hot in this God-forsaken place. It was the kind of rundown sty that the locals loved to go for clandestine rendezvous and outdated songs playing from an antiquated jukebox. As her own carnal urges soon gave in to the oppressive heat, she fell back with a sigh to wait for the cool dark of night.

The spectacled hog took another nervous swig of his chilled grappa, using the back of his hoof to wipe the residue from his upper snout.

"Please," implored the spectacled hog. "The least you could do is hear me out."

"All right," said Little Piggy's comrade, a gray pig known for his precise combat maneuvers. He was meticulous about battle, but somehow unable to muster the same attention to detail with regard to his own personal hygiene. The stench of soap emitting from the crevices of his bristly skin seemed to magnify her impatience.