The Hog Beast Chronicles

When a prisoner takes stock of their situation and gazes longingly at freedom through iron bars, whether real or imaginary, at some point they will have to ask themselves, how did I get here?  I find myself trapped within a construct erected by not only my oppressors but by myself as well.  Forces too overwhelming to counteract have planted me in a cell whose door swings freely but I am unable to flee from.

For more time than I can competently calculate I have been trapped in a den of monsters and villains.  These creatures have grown content in their filth and seclusion, no longer identifying as prisoners but compatriots to those of low moral fiber and vice.  They speak to one another in harsh guttural syllables that, over time, I have begun to decode and understand. I am unsure if this was a wise tactic for as the days roll by unacknowledged, I fear the concept kinship or, God forbid, acceptances from these foul beings.

The keeper of this jail, though a prisoner as well, imagines elaborate scenarios in which she is held in the highest regard.  The spirits that roam the halls, with faces blank and expressionless, she counts as friends or subordinates, though they float through their existence with nary a nod of recognition toward the diminutive creature.  Her mode of communication is less a language and more a system of high frequency tones that crack and splinter like old wood upon the ears.  Clutched in hands that time and unknowable actions have left gnarled as palm roots is a small golden device which she covets above all else.  Through the small glass window in its front she gleans any manner of depraved information she desires.  Positive action means nothing to this wretched creature as hours pass with nary a movement from her save for the quick and sporadic shifting of her hideous yellow eyes as they dart across the device’s polished glass.

From what I have gathered from snatches of overheard conversation, she is but one of many.  The family line of this being is long with many forks, each offshoot seemingly dedicated to the destruction of some long standing social structure.  Members of this degraded clan can seek an audience with their own three times great grandmother or father without the aid of a seer or shaman, their generations having less time between them than hares or rats.

Confined within my very cell is a horror that exceeds all those created before it and all others birthed since.  An immense flabby beast, neither entirely human nor entirely animal, lumbers about even as I write these very words.  Its skin is white as alabaster with the appearance of rising bread dough.  With a body no mortal man can describe, it perches its incalculable bulk upon a chair one can only imagine was crafted by the gods to support such an immense leviathan.

This creature posses a hunger I have not yet seen sated.  Tributes of food provided by the self appointed jailer are provided from a seemingly endless supply, all provided at the jailers expense.  Though try as she might, the jailer is inadequate to her task.  Alongside the steady stream of sustenance provided for it, the beast also gorges itself upon enormous portions of unidentifiable meats and coarse vegetable matter, all prepared by the beast’s unskilled hands.  During the beasts near constant feedings the air is fouled with the odors of unimaginable grotesqueness.  The stomach churning vapors are further circulated through our small shared space by the flabby smacking lips of the enormous horror.  Noises unlike most men have ever heard assail my ears with a force that seems to anchor the emissions deep and immovable into the core of my very soul.  In the best of circumstances they conjure images of booted feet traversing a muddy bog, but in the worst throes are more horrible than the human mind and tongue alone can fully codify.  One of the few instances where food, or food of sorts, is not being consumed is when the gelatinous monstrosity feels the need to void itself.  It is only in these few brief respites that greedily seizing hands cease their repeated trips to the bottomless maw of this un-nameable abomination.

This however does not mean an abatement of hideous odors.  In the halting steps of a creature brought to horrible life by the machinations of some mad man, the blasphemy enters the facilities and swiftly locks the door behind it.  Minutes tick by as the sounds of appalling wet bodies’ splash and slide greasily away from one another; all the while the hum of a single fan struggles in vain against a foe no mortal could imagine.  When the heavy wooden door finally cracks open and the light and fan are extinguished the beast emerges, but not alone.  A murky phantom called forth from the ether pursues the beast, allowed passage into our world from a portal so unspeakable I can do no more to describe it.  This specter, made almost corporeal, soon spreads, and fills every corner of the small cell.  Tears flow freely from my eyes as I have no defense from such a powerful apparition.

The beast seems, however, somewhat aware of modesty and is swathed in a clothing of sorts.  Once brightly colored material now stretched to the breaking point and adorned with uncountable stains, envelopes curves, and angles outside our Euclidean realm. Unruly portions of skin, slick with sweat and other less wholesome excretions protrude from the covering.  The exposed rotten flesh reminds one of an immense portion of pudding left unattended, its top most membrane growing thick and splitting.  The material, piebald with holes from unknown origins, does little more than conceal the most egregious areas of the beast’s anatomy; even this simple consideration though can be counted as a blessing in such a foul place.

Sleep is the only other distraction from the beasts near constant feeding and squawking.  At rest the beast is nearly indistinguishable to its countenance when awake.  Its massive bulk serves as a stout anchor, effectively rooting the abomination in place where ever it decides to rest its titanic bulk.  When in the throes of sleep air becomes a nearly impossible resource for the thing to draw.  Each harsh rasping gulp, seemingly clawed from the clutches of the grim reaper himself, sounds as though it may be the last.  A head, similar to the visage of a rotting pumpkin, bobs lazily as nervous spasms over take the limbs of the thing.  I dare not approach for fear of confused consumption.

In time I am confident I will find the key to my cell, though I know not in which form it will present itself.  These monsters have accepted me as one of their own and that is what frightens me the most.  I do not engage, I do not partake, but I am still drawn closer and closer within this horrible fold.  My escape must be soon, and God willing it will be.

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