have no idea where she’s going with this.
“Let me guess. Am I the pig in this scenario?” I ask, pointing at my chest.
She nods. “Yes, for this metaphor anyway. Smoke, or anyone who does what we do, are pig farmers and pig farmers don’t name their pigs, they don’t treat them like pets because they’re not. They might be walking around breathing, but they’re food. You don’t cuddle and play with food. You don’t tie pretty bows around your food’s neck.” She holds out her hands, palms up, and shrugs. “You don’t name the bacon.”
“And you think Smoke did?”
Rage nods. “Oh, Smoke’s a pig namer alright. Never thought I would say that about him. But if he isn’t careful, then soon he’ll be a pig…” Rage pauses and presses her lips together. A burst of laughter escapes, and she covers her mouth with her hands.
“A pig fucker?” I barely get the word out.
Rage and I look at each other, and we’re lost to laughter until our stomachs ache and our eyes tear. It feels so good to laugh that once I start I can’t seem to stop.
I’ve got a death sentence looming over my head. I’ve been abducted by a killer, and I’m sitting across from another who just compared me to a pig being lead to slaughter.