Pigs In Paradise

Roger Maxson

Pigs In Paradise

A Fairy Story Most Absurd

© 2021 Roger Maxson

COPYRIGHT

Title: Pigs in Paradise

Subtitle: a fairy most absurd

Author: Roger Maxson

First edition

Year of publication: 2021

ISBNs EPUB: 9788835429104 PRINT: 9788835429111

Publisher name: Tektime

Cover Design: Adam Hay Studio

Clauses

All rights reserved

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise without written permission from the publisher. It is illegal to copy this book, post it to a website, or distribute it by any other means without permission.

Fiction

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

Moral rights

Roger Maxson asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

External content

Roger Maxson has no responsibility for the persistence or accuracy of URLs for external or third-party Internet Websites referred to in this publication and does not guarantee that any content on such Websites is, or will remain, accurate or appropriate.

Designations

Designations used by companies to distinguish their products are often claimed as trademarks. All brand names and product names used in this book and on its cover are trade names, service marks, trademarks and registered trademarks of their respective owners. The publishers and the book are not associated with any product or vendor mentioned in this book. None of the companies referenced within the book have endorsed the book.

Additional clauses

The following are excerpted under fair use, “Nobody Loves Me but My Mother” by B. B. King; “If I had a Hammer” by Pete Seeger; “Danke Schoen” English lyrics by Milt Gabler; “I’m Henry the VIII, I Am” by P.P. Weston. Gospel songs in public domain or not copyrighted, “I’ve Got That Joy, Joy, Joy Down in my Heart,” “I’ll Fly Away,” and “Bringing in the Sheaves.” Lastly, hints of “Imagine” by John Lennon.

Regarding permission to use the lyrics to “We Shall Overcome” by Pete Seeger, et al., all reasonable efforts were made to contact the copyright holders. If, however, anyone who believes their copyright to be infringed is welcome to contact the author/publisher to remedy this issue. I consider the above song a gift.

For Chloe

What is wrong with inciting intense dislike of a religion if the activities or teachings of that religion are so outrageous, irrational or abusive of human rights that they deserve to be intensely disliked?

Rowan Atkinson

Preface

After spending nine years writing Pigs in Paradise, following four years of research, trepidation, and fear of failure, I decided to self-publish because I did not want to delay instant gratification and overnight success any longer. Another reason to self-publish was that I wanted to publish my book, the one I wrote.

Pigs in Paradise, a fairy story most absurd, is a political satire, literary and funny, too, says I. If the novel seems a little long, there is a reason for that. It is an exercise in freedom of expression, and freedom from religion, a critique of religion in politics, namely American evangelicalism. The idea for the novel started to take shape in 2007. Influenced by George Orwell’s Animal Farm, I found my mission, or it found me.

Being religious is a condition chosen for the individual born into one before a child has a choice or an option. I do not ridicule religious people, per se. I do unto religious leaders, though, as they do unto others, and have a good time doing it.

Someone’s religious label is chosen for the individual. Quite often, the religious label depends on where one is born. If someone is born in India, it is reasonable to assume that that person will be Hindu. Likewise, if someone is born in Pakistan, that person is fucked.

In the infidel West, there is a smorgasbord of religious choice. In the United States, there are Protestant persuasions, Baptist congregations from the north or south, Presbyterians, Lutherans, Methodists, and Episcopalians. There is a close cousin, the Catholic church, and let us not forget the Mormons of the Church of Latter-Day Saints of Jesus. Competition is good, and every stripe or persuasion hates the other. Today, a pressing issue runs through the archdiocese of the American Catholic Church. Bishops ponder whether the American Catholic president should be given communion because of his position on abortion. As if anyone cares what these pedophiles think. They have become old, worn-out, irrelevant, the way of all religions today.

Today, thank goodness, more “nones” are born than nuns or born agains. More “nones” in more non-religious households means hope, a promise of good things to come. As more of these young “nones” move up the ranks and into positions of political power, they’ll save the world from its course of self-destruction from guns, greed, climate change, a promise, and a prayer of a better life up yonder. Until that time, however, we have what we have and must do what we can to ward off the evil done by the religious or, rather, the ridiculous. I hope I have done my part, if only in a small way. What is a fairy story? Talking animals. What is absurd? Talking animals led to religion.

Roger Maxson

Table of Contents

  Preface

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  28

  29

  30

  31

  32

  33

  34

  35

  36

  37

  38

  39

  40

  41

  42

  43

 

  44

  45

  46

  47

  About the Author

1
Out on Highway 61

On an Israeli farm on the Egyptian border, a Jersey cow gave birth to what appeared to be a red calf of biblical proportion. Muslims from the village that overlooked the Israeli farm shouted and pointed with a great deal of consternation. Several men held their heads while others wrung their hands and moaned and scurried back and forth. The call went out for afternoon prayers.

Meanwhile, on the Israeli side, there was a hush over the land, a collective breath was taken, followed by the rush of people as they flocked to the farm just south of Kerem Shalom to witness what possibly could be the miracle that would surely usher in the Messiah and with him the end of the world. Jews and Christians alike gathered around the property fence at their respective places, depending on who they were. And regardless of who they were, Christian or Jew, all were beside themselves with emotion.

One orthodox Jew jumped for joy. “We’re saved! The world is coming to an end,” he sang a little immodestly. He checked himself and his hat.

Stanley, the black Belgian stallion, trotted out of the barn. He wondered what was all the excitement about. He saw all the people gathering at the property fence, men and women, even children this time. “What’s all this?” he said. “If they think I’m going to put on another show, they’re mistaken.”

“Not here for you, Stanley,” said Praline, the leader of the Luzein breed. She and Molly tried to graze as their lambs nursed from them, both new mothers with Molly, the Border Leicester, the proud mother of twins.

“What the–whatever,” he said and trotted out to graze beneath the olive trees.

In the middle of the pasture, under the sun and God and heaven, the Jersey nursed her newborn calf. This was no ordinary calf, but truly a red calf that nursed from the teats of a mere Jersey. “It’s a miracle,” someone shouted. “Someone, call a rabbi.”

“Please, someone, anyone, call Rabbi Ratzinger to verify this miracle of birth.”

With all the attention being paid to Blaise’s newborn, she turned to Mel. “Mel, what is all this about? Why are all these people here and so much attention being given to Lizzy? I’m not comfortable with this, Mel. Mel, what does it all mean?”

Mel, the mule priest, assured Blaise, the Jersey cow, there was nothing to worry about. Her newborn calf was very special indeed. A gift from God, she’ll always treated as royalty. “For as long as your little heifer shall live, she’ll remain special and treated as such by Jewish and Christian peoples the world over, and all people the world over will one day come to know of and experience her presence.”

From the world over, media were arriving in droves to document the event, setting up camera equipment for what was going to be, once verified by a rabbi or committee thereof, the official announcement and declaration of the calf’s authenticity. Fox News from America was on the scene and ready to report live.

Julius, the resident parrot, along with the two ravens, Ezekiel and Dave, watched as the events unfolded from the shade of the great olive tree in the middle of the pasture. Molly and Praline grazed near the terraced slopes, with their newborn lambs staying close to their sides.

“I imagine Molly’s particularly hungry now that she’s providing for three,” said Billy St. Cyr, an Angora goat, to Billy Kidd, a lean brown and tan Boer goat.

“Yes, I suppose she is,” Billy Kidd replied as if he cared while gnawing at the yellow shrub grass.

“Julius,” Dave said, “what’s going on here? What is all this?”

“Allow me to explain as events unfold before our very eyes. I’m afraid you won’t believe this, but here goes. It’s a fairy story of the most absurd kind. The good news is we have three years before we have to pack for Armageddon. The bad news is we’ll have nowhere to go because Armageddon brings with it the end of the world as we know it. That’s the plan anyway.”

“I’m sorry,” Ezekiel said. “What did he say?”

“Something about a fairy tale,” Dave told him.

“I like fairy tales.”

“I doubt very much you’ll like this one,” Dave said.

“Before we get to the happy-ending-of-life-as-we-know-it,” Julius continued, “we’ll first have to wait to see if she’s worthy of sacrificial blood-letting ritual sport. In the meantime, though, no one is to make that beast a burden. I wouldn’t tell Blaise, though, if I were you, the part about cutting the poor dear’s throat.”

Blaise removed her calf to the sanctuary of the barn, far from the madding crowds of onlookers.

When Rabbi Ratzinger and members of his congregation arrived, they were prepared this time, armed with umbrellas. Many thought this was a cautionary measure as protection from the sun. However, Julius and the ravens knew better. A member of the congregation held an umbrella over the rabbi when they entered the barn lot. Rabbi Ratzinger nodded, acknowledging Bruce, and stopped. He said, “You have made a great sacrifice for mankind and was given one chance to get it right. Thank you, Mr. Bull.” A member of his party whispered in the rabbi’s ear. “Oh, yes, of course. Thank you, Mr. Steer. You did a very good thing before you did a very bad thing. The Lord works in mysterious ways.”

The ravens had Julius. For everyone else, there was Rabbi Ratzinger.

As per the rabbi, “Be sure to give this calf the life of Riley. Do not put her under the yoke or she will no longer be worthy. Polish her nails. Give her a bed of down to rest her beautiful unblemished head and a field of clover. She must be protected and cared for. I will examine the young calf now, and in three years hence, I will return to examine her again. If at that time, she has remained unmolested and unblemished, she will truly be worthy of the purification rituals needed to pave the way for the Messiah. There shall be no three white, black, or brown hairs on this heifer’s body or tail. Remember, she has to remain a pure red calf for the purification rituals to work, so that we shall be deemed worthy to once again mount the stairs to the Holy Mount and enter the temple of the Holy of Holies. That is, of course, once we destroy the mosque and rebuild the holy temple.

“In three years, we shall find the boy pure of heart. We have him already, living in a bubble under glass, a boy pure of heart, unsoiled. There he shall remain a virgin. Not only that, but the boy shall not waste his seed on the ground. For when the boy is of age to defile himself, he’ll be fitted with a pair of gloves designed for the boy pure of heart to remain that way. At any time, the boy tries to defile himself, he shall receive a current of electricity as a sign from G-d, as though it were a lightning bolt. Do not fear, however, for our electrical shock is much less severe than G-d’s lightning bolt. Once the boy has completed his G-d-given mission of slitting the red calf’s throat, we shall throw him a great Bar Mitzvah.”

From the branches of the olive tree, Julius and the ravens wished that the rabbi and company were without those umbrellas.

The rabbi entered the barn, and the crowd held its collective breath. When he reappeared, the rabbi said that she was worthy for the three-year vigil, and the multitudes sighed, then cheered and applauded. Some fainted, while others cried with joy.

As he prepared to depart the feedlot, and thus quit the farm, Rabbi Ratzinger approached the former Simbrah bull. The rabbi once again said for all to hear, “He has made a great sacrifice, and has suffered greatly for the people of Israel, and all people of the humankind. Now, in three years, and without blemish, this red calf shall be sacrificed by the hand of the boy pure of heart when he cuts her throat and makes us worthy to rebuild the third temple that will usher in the Messiah and destroy all the earth so that we shall once again live as before as in a fairy tale of happily ever after.” As the crowd roared, some passed out due to all the excitement and heat.

“Now that makes perfectly good logical sense to me,” Julius said. “I couldn’t have repeated it better myself.”

Mel entered the barn and found Blaise with her newborn in the stall. “It is imperative that you understand that as long as your heifer lives, no harm will come to it.”

“Her,” Blaise said. “She is not an ‘it.’”

“Of course, I meant no disrespect, my dear,” Mel said. “She is not an ‘it,’ as you say. She is, however, the red calf, and thus, the new It-girl of the civilized world.”

2
A Road Runs Through It

The two ravens flew from the loft of the two-story cinder-block barn and alighted in the branches of the great olive tree in the middle of the pasture. The pasture was part of a 48-hectare moshav in Israel that bordered Egypt and the Sinai Desert. Only a few kilometers south of Kerem Shalom, it was not far from the Rafal Border Crossing between the Gaza Strip and Egypt. The 48-hectare moshav, or 118-acre farm, stood like an oasis in the arid desert with olive and carob trees, lemon groves, brown-green pasture, and crops used as fodder for the livestock. In the pasture, pigs dotted the landscape, grazing on the brown-green grass, and lounged on the wet-clay banks of a pond fed by a system of underground aqua filters that supplied water to this and other surrounding moshavim.

Ezekiel and Dave were perched, hidden among the branches of the great olive tree. Ezekiel said, “On a day like today one can see forever.”

“Sandstone, as far as the eye can see,” Dave said and ruffled his shiny black feathers.

“Oh, look, a scorpion. Care for one?” Ezekiel said.

“No, thank you, I’ve eaten. Besides, I doubt the scorpion would care very much about being my afternoon meal.”

“You have such empathy for the lesser forms of creatures among us.”

“I can afford empathy when full,” Dave said. “When running on empty, not so much.”

“You’re always generous toward the farm animals.”

“Yes, well, empathy for the lesser creatures among us.”

While the domesticated farm animals, two breeds of sheep, goats, Jersey cow, and bay mare grazed in the pasture, others, mostly pigs, took refuge from the noonday sun, far from the madding herds, flocks, and gaggles, by lounging on the banks of the pond in relative peace. A road ran north and south, dividing the moshav in half, and on this side of the road, the Muslims from the nearby Egyptian village did not like the spectacle of filthy swine sunbathing.

Mel, the priestly mule, meandered along the fence line, careful to stay within earshot of two Orthodox Jews as they made their way through the moshav along the sandy road as they often did while on their daily walks. The road went parallel between the main pasture on one side and the dairy operation on the other.

“Jew, pig, what difference does it make?”

“Well, so long as they keep kosher.”

“Mark my word, one day those pigs will be our ruin.”

“Nonsense,” replied the one whose name was Levy.

“Of all places on the earth to raise pigs, Perelman chose here with Egypt to the west and Gaza Strip to the north. This place is a tinderbox,” Levy’s friend Ed said.

“The money Perelman makes on exports to Cypress, and Greece, not to mention Harvey’s Pulled Pork Palace in Tel Aviv, makes the moshav profitable.”

“The Muslims aren’t happy with swine wallowing in the mud,” Ed said. “They say the pigs are an affront to Allah.”

“I thought we were an affront to Allah.”

“We’re an abomination.”

“Shalom, swine-herders,” someone called. The two Jews stopped in the road, as did the mule, grazing just inside the fence. An Egyptian approached. He wore a plain headscarf, and white cotton clothes. “Those swine,” he pointed, “those filthy swine are going to be your ruin. They are an affront to Allah; an insult to Muhammad; in short, they offend our sensibilities.”

“Yes, we agree. They are trouble.”

“Trouble?” said the Egyptian. “Just look at what trouble is.” Along the mud-clay banks of the pond, a Large White, or Yorkshire boar, poured muddy water over the heads of other pigs wallowing in the mud. “What is that?”

“That is something we have not seen ourselves.”

“These are not swine or farm animals, these animals. They are evil spirits, djinns, from the desert. They will bring about the destruction of this place around you. They are an abomination. Slaughter the beasts. Burn their stench from the land or Allah will. For it is Allah’s will, that will prevail.”

“Yes, well, I’m afraid we can’t help you,” Leavy said. “You see, this is not our moshav.”

“We’re merely passersby,” Ed said.

“Allahu Akhbar!” The Egyptian turned and made his way up the sunbaked slope that separated the two countries. Only fence separated the postage-sized 48-hectare Israeli farm from the rugged, wind-swept Sinai Desert. Once the Egyptian reached the crest of the hill, he disappeared into his village.

“Doomed,” Ed said. “He is right. We are all doomed. Of all places on the earth to grow pigs, this swine-herder, this moshavnik Perelman, chose here.”

“Look,” said Levy. “What does he think he is, John the Baptist?”

“That’s trouble I’m afraid,” Ed said. “That’s an abomination.”

Out in the afternoon sun before God and all to see, the Large White stood upright, and from the pond dropped a dollop of wet mud over a yellow-feathered chicken’s head--“Bog! Bog!” cried the hen, buried as she was with mud to her beak. To the animals of the farm, the Large White was known as Howard the Baptist, a Perfect, and almost in every way. As the two men continued beyond the farm’s boundary, the mule turned toward the olive tree that soared in the middle of the main pasture. Border Leicester and Luzein sheep grazed among the smaller carob and olive trees as goats gnawed the scrub grass that grew along the upper terraced slopes that helped conserve water.

In the middle of the pasture, Blaise, the Jersey, and Beatrice, the bay mare grazed. “My goodness, Beatrice,” Blaise said. “Stanley certainly has caught wind of you.”

“He’s such a showoff,” Beatrice said. “Just look at him.”

In the fenced barn lot behind the white cinder block barn, the black Belgian stallion neighed and whinnied and pranced about in all his glory and swagger. He was a large horse with broad shoulders who stood 17 hands or, as priests from the local churches preferred, 17 inches.

“Do you suppose he knows that the gate has been opened?” Blaise said.

“It doesn’t matter. Just look at all those humans. Who said men were Godly?”

From the ridge of the brown sandstone hill, Muslim men and boys watched with anticipation as village women chased young girls away. While on the Israeli side, Jews and Christians, and monks among them from nearby monasteries, all loved a parade. Stanley did not disappoint. He reared back onto his muscular hind legs and kicked at the air, showing off his prowess and massive member, dripping wet as it was, sowing his seed in the ground beneath him for all who saw, and there were many. Cheers went up from the crowd as Stanley snorted, and swaggered about the barn lot. “If Manly Stanley wants to parade about and make a fool of himself, he’ll do it without me.”

“Manly Stanley,” Blaise laughed. “Really, of all things?”

“Yes, dear, you see,” Beatrice smiled, “when Stanley’s with me, he’s usually standing on two legs.”

Blaise and Beatrice continued to graze, and as they did, they drifted apart. Stanley, out of the gate, found his way to Beatrice’s ear. He whinnied, and whined; neighed and nagged, but no matter what he did or how nice he asked, nothing seemed to work. To the dismay of the onlookers, the bay mare refused the advances of the black Belgian Stallion. Unbeknownst to them, it was because of their presence that she would not allow the Belgian to cover her, and thus entertain them. No matter how much Stanley sashayed, pranced, swayed, or swung his member, for that matter, Beatrice would not give in to his desire or bluster. Several men continued to linger against the fence, watching and hoping.

“I’m beginning to think you like this, the torment,” Beatrice said.

“If I had a pair of hands, I wouldn’t need you,” he snorted.

“Wish you had maybe then you’d leave me alone. Look at them, quite content to be left to their own devices. Perhaps if you ask nicely, one will lend you two of his, or two of them and make it a party.” Beatrice resumed grazing alongside Blaise in the pasture.

The white two-story main cinder block barn, with the feedlot, and awning that extended in the back of the barn, and two pastures made up most of the half of the farm that bordered Egypt and the Sinai Desert. On the other side of the road were the main house and guest quarters, both coated in stucco, the laborers’ quarters, the dairy operation, and the smaller dairy barn. A sandy tractor path turned off the road and ran behind the dairy barn down between a lemon grove and a small meadow where 12 Israeli Holsteins grazed.

As Blaise and Beatrice continued to graze in the main pasture alongside the two breeds of sheep, Border Leicester, and Luzein, a small number of Angora and Boer goats grazed along the terraced slopes. In another pasture, one separated by a fence and a wooden gate, grazed one singular, muscular, reddish-coated Simbrah bull, a combination of the Zebu or Brahman for its tolerance to heat and insect resistance and the docile Simmental. Stanley, all black except for a slender white diamond patch that ran down his nose, was back in the barn lot and continued to prance about, showing off.

The pig population was not just a geopolitical problem but a numbers problem as well. For they were proliferate and produced large numbers of offspring, often stretching the boundaries and natural resources of the moshav where animal husbandry was a practiced art form. Among the general population, also lived the rather large and mightily noisy blue-and-gold macaw parrot who was aloof, and lived aloft in the rafters with Ezekiel and Dave, the two ravens with their shiny, shimmering black feathers. Rounding out the farm population, besides the old black and grey mule, were two Rottweilers from the farmhouse who spent most of their time attending the mule, and the flocks and gaggles of chickens, ducks, and geese.

Blaise went out to the pond. Howard the Baptist was now resting among the other pigs when it was at its hottest time of day. He stood when he saw Blaise approaching. “Blaise, you who are without sin, have come to be baptized?”

“No, silly. It’s awfully hot, though, won’t you agree?”

“I agree you should join me and become a priestess of the true believers of God, those who know the truth that every one of us is empowered with the knowledge that God lives within us all; thus, all is good and pure of heart. Ours is a battle between good and evil, light and dark. With me, you are a priestess, a Perfect, an equal. Blaise, others already love and listen and follow you. This is your place in the sun.”

“Oh, Howard, you’re too kind, but I have no following.”

“You will. Come, this is your time to shine. Here, the female is accepted as an equal and shares in the service of our fellow animals, great and small, female and male alike. All are good and equal in the true faith.” Howard poured muddied water over Blaise, and it ran down along her neck. “We do not discriminate, or need buildings built of brick and mortar to worship in, or seek a mediator to speak to God.”

“Howard, I came out for a drink of water.” Blaise lowered her head, and in a clear section of the pond, she drank as the mud along her neck trickled down and muddied the clean water.

“Mark my word, Blaise, his sanctuary will come down around you and all the animals that follow him to a dark abyss.”

“It’s a barn, Howard. I have a stall in the barn, as does Beatrice. It’s where his ramblings-on-about loll Beatrice and me to sleep.”

“Blaise,” Howard called after her. “Someone is coming, Blaise. A pig, a minion, to do the mule’s destruction.”

“He baptized you,” Beatrice said when Blaise returned to the pasture. “I saw him pour water over you.”

“Mud mostly if you must know. Pigs love it. It is rather soothing I must say on such a hot day when shade at best is fleeting.” They started for the olive tree where the others, mostly the greater of the animals, stood in its shade. They stopped when they saw the mule approaching, not wanting him to hear them.

“I have to say what Howard says about truth and light and having the knowledge of God in our hearts sounds more appealing than the fear-mongering from him,” Blaise said.

“Don’t know what that old mule’s talking about half the time. It’s all mind-numbing.”

The yellow chicken, dripping from mud and water, ran past. “We’re being persecuted! Better get your houses in order. The end is upon us!”

“He’s so full of menace and foreboding, doom, and despair.”

“Beatrice, is your house in order?”

“I don’t have one,” she laughed.

“That’s Mel’s audience, easy prey,” Blaise said, nodding toward the retreating chicken.

“Oh, what does he know? He’s a worn-out old mule. I can’t make sense of any of it.”

“Julius, on the other hand, is a good bird and a dear friend. He’s harmless.”

“Careless is more like it if you ask me.” Blaise nudged Beatrice with her nose as the mule approached to join the others in the shade of the great olive tree. Beyond the animals, on the Egyptian side of the border, the Muslim who had warned the two Jews of the pig population problem now was being chased through the village by his neighbors. Men hurled stones and boys fired rocks from sling-shots until he fell, and disappeared, never to be seen or heard from again.

“Did you see that?” Dave said.

“See what?” Ezekiel said. “I can’t see anything for the leaves of the tree.”

Julius flew out and alighted in the tree branches above the other animals standing in the shade. Large at thirty-four inches with a long tail, his bright blue feathers blended nicely with the leaves of the olive tree. He had a black beak, dark-blue chin, and a green forehead. He tucked the golden feathers on the underside of his wings into his outer blue and would not standstill. Instead, he continuously moved back and forth in the branches. “What a motley crew this is.”

“Holy macaw! It’s Julius.”

“Hello Blaise, how do you do?”

“I do fine, thank you. Where have you been, silly bird?”

“I’ve been here all along, silly cow.”

“No, you haven’t.”

“Well, if you must know, I’ve been defending your honor and it’s not been easy. I had to fight my way out of Kerem Shalom, then fly all the way here. Boy, are my wings tired.”

“I don’t believe a word of it,” she laughed.

“Blaise, you wound me. What don’t you believe, the fight or the flight?”

“Well, obviously you flew.”