Absolute Swine

ABSOLUTE SWINE

by

Mike O'Connor

Copyright (c) 2017 by Mike O'Connor

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CHAPTER 1

ALL CREATURES DRUNK AND SMALL.

Benkinsog's horse was pissed again. The animal staggered from its stable and into the yard, whinnying a bawdy equine drinking song and swaying dangerously from side to side. It staggered for a few yards, then reared up on its hind legs and completed the final verse of its unintelligible row, before collapsing in the gutter. There it remained, shaking an angry front hoof at the world and challenging it to step outside. The dog, which was a Lassie type collie and so knew a sheep when it saw one, raced from the barn, where it had been subjecting the ginger tomcat to some serious sexual harassment. This clever collie also knew an intoxicated horse when it saw one and, following a hurried assessment of the situation, deemed it appropriate to raise the alarm. This was done in the time-honoured tradition of loud and frantic barking, which further enraged the horse.

Presently, a light came on in an upstairs window and a staggering figure in silhouette pulled the curtains down from the rail, in an attempt to open them. The unsteady shape momentarily disappeared from view, then resurfaced, gripping the window ledge for support. A further five minutes of struggling later, it managed to push the window open.

Bob Benkinsog, who had been drinking heavily for most of his life, managed a dramatic aaaarrrrgh! as he tumbled headfirst from the window. He landed in the festering bath of sewage beneath, with a dirty splash.

Another figure appeared at the same window- that of Mrs. Benkinsog - also known as Barbara to some people, of whom her husband was one. She was not one to consider fourteen stone as overweight or forty-two as old, so did not therefore consider herself a fat old bitch. Her face was plastered with makeup and she was wearing a silver sequinned ball gown that amply advertised her ample bits. There was probably a sound reason for her being dressed thus, at five-forty-nine AM. Or perhaps there wasn't.

Benkinsog emerged from the sewage bath, like the creature from the poo lagoon. Or a shithead. He had been meaning to pump that sewage into the river, but had obviously prevaricated overlong on the matter.

Shit! he shouted.

The dog obediently sat.

What's going on? shouted Barbara.

The dog is barking and the 'kin horse is pissed, he shouted back.

Again!

The dog is barking and the 'kin horse is pissed! he repeated.

That again was with an exclamation mark, Barbara retorted.

The horse whinnied madly and the barking of the dog became more frantic. The cat, seeing the way clear, bolted from the barn and scurried to safety up the nearest tree. From a high branch, it meowed, up yours, asshole. The dog, which spoke a smattering of cat, in addition to pidgin crow, resolved to bugger and dismember the ginger fleabag at the earliest opportunity.

Throw me down my binoculars, Benkinsog shouted to his wife.

As he awaited her compliance with this request, he studied himself in the full-length mirror on the outside of the back door. Even though he was short, fat and fifty, with a pot belly and moustacheless grey beard, he did not think he bore the slightest resemblance to a big garden gnome. In fact, he thought he looked quite fetching, even in sewage soaked pyjamas and with faeces dripping from his beard.

Here, shouted Barbara, interrupting his reverie.

The binocular case bounced off his bald head and into the filth. But the binoculars themselves were what mattered and he caught these with both hands. He raised them to his eyes and trained them on the solitary caravan that stood in the centre of a distant field.

Awakened by the Benkinsog dawn chorus, a stunningly attractive blonde girl in her mid-twenties had risen from her bed and now stood on the caravan doorstep. She was wearing semi-transparent pink pyjamas that clung like sellotape to her every sensual curve. As Benkinsog watched, she casually unbuttoned her pyjama jacket and exposed her full, milky white breasts, to which her stiff brown nipples were attached. She stretched, displaying herself to the full, then turned and disappeared back inside the caravan.

Benkinsog felt a warm tingling in his loins and realised he had wet himself. He lowered the binoculars and turned to his wife, who was scaling carefully down the drainpipe.

What are you doing? he demanded.

What does it look like? she replied.

She reached the ground safely and opened the back door, to let the pig out. It trotted over to where the horse was sprawled and grunted derision that could only be understood by another pig. In reply, the semi-comatose horse whinnied a pointless obscenity. The dog began barking more loudly. The cat responded with a chorus of high-pitched yowls. In the distance, a cow lowed and a sheep baaed. A cock crowed, a donkey brayed and a barn owl hooted. Several crows, three pigeons and a cuckoo added their voices to the hellish cacophony, which was audible from a great distance.

Into the yard, at that moment, staggered a young man in a luminous orange tracksuit and air soled trainers. At the sight of his twenty-three year old son, Benkinsog glowered. Barry was twenty-three and Benkinsog was his father. The fact that his brothers and sisters were all younger than him made Barry the eldest of the Benkinsog offspring.

In his right hand, he carried a bloodstained baseball bat, in his left, a half-empty can of Petrochemical Extra Strength lager. His dark hair was tightly cropped and the word BEER tattooed on his forehead, in aggressive black letters. He glowered back, when his father blocked his path to the door. Barbara was touching up her lipstick. It reminded her of an erect penis.

Where the bloody hell have you been 'til this hour? Benkinsog demanded.

Fuckin' out, haven't I! Barry snarled in reply. Some fuckas gave me and the Bastards some fuckin' shit, so we gave 'em a kicking they won't fuckin' forget. Outa my way, dad, man. I've had enough fuckin' shit for one fuckin' night.

Don't use that kind of language in front of your mother, Benkinsog growled, clenching his fists.

Oh, don't worry on my account, said Barbara, setting up the easel to paint her fingernails. There's worse things in the world than obscene language. But having said that, I'm not too keen on that C word that's used to describe the woman part. It's been cropping up a lot in Dung Times lately. I've written a letter of complaint to the editor. If they publish it, I'll get a fiver.

I wrote a letter to Bestial Babes, oh, many years ago now, said Benkinsog, smiling at the memory. I can't remember what it was about. Beef mountains, I think. They never published it anyway. If you ask me, half the bloody letters in them top-shelf agricultural magazines are made up.

Are they? asked Barbara.

If you ask me, they are, he replied. I mean, Christ! If people did half the things they say they do in them letters, they'd have to build more jails for the wankers. He turned back to his son and shook his head in dismay. Look at the 'kin state of you! We were lucky to have feet in my day, never mind fancy shoes. And we did our fighting like real men. Twenty pints of Castrol brown ale and a Woodbine, without even going to the toilet. No tracksuits or hockey bats for us, lad. We fought clean, with our bare hands and iron bars, often stark bollock naked.

This is a fuckin' baseball bat, not a hockey bat, Barry pointed out, menacingly brandishing his weapon. This is an offensive fuckin' weapon. Fuckin' lethal in the hands of a hard bastard like me. So don't you go fuckin' with me, dad, man.

He took a final swig from his can of brain death and dropped the empty at his father's feet. He glared into his eyes, defying him to say or do something.

I'll call the vet, said Benkinsog, his voice almost drowned out by the creature chorus.

Fuckin' right I am, Barry retorted.

Having made his point, he strode arrogantly indoors, smashing the door mirror with a swing of his baseball bat, on the way. Benkinsog growled and added a serious physical assault upon his eldest son to his mental list of things to be done.

CHAPTER 2

A MAN CALLED LONGWILLY.

It was nearly midday, by the time the vet arrived. He was a handsome man of thirty, with sharp blonde hair and a gold ring in his left ear. His eyes were hidden behind an expensive pair of sunglasses. He was dressed in an immaculately tailored grey three-piece suit and new green wellingtons that gleamed like mirrors.

Pity there isn't a mirror on the door, he thought narcissistically as he stepped from his sparkling red Ferrari, black leather bag in his right hand. He sniffed the air, with obvious distaste. Why did farms always have to be so smelly?

The Benkinsog family, with two exceptions, was lined up in the living room. Barry was unconscious in his bedroom and the other one does not come into the story until much later. Benkinsog stepped forward and shook the hand of the groomed and toned veterinary practitioner.

I'm Bob Benkinsog, he solemnly announced. I'd like you to meet the family. My wife, Mrs Benkinsog.

Barbara had changed into black leather trousers, high heels and a pink nylon housecoat. She shook the vet's hand, said hello and curtsied slightly.

Belinda, our eldest daughter, continued Benkinsog.

The vet smiled dazzlingly as he shook the hand of the blonde and blue eyed eighteen-year-old standing before him. Belinda licked her full red lips suggestively and glanced down at the swelling in the crotch of his trousers. Her eye-catching, firm young breasts were thrust towards him, almost bursting from the clinging red lycra dress that could ill-conceal her luscious teenage shape.

Billy, our youngest boy. He'll be ten in July.

The vet shook the hand of the scruffy little boy, without taking his eyes from Belinda. He did not even notice the thick lump of snot that Billy had stuck to his palm before extending it, and which was now stuck to his own hand.

And this is Betty. She'll also be ten in July, on account of being Billy's twin. Betty, say hello to the vet.

Billy stuck a bogey on his hand, the little girl squealed.

Bitch! Billy yelled and punched her in the face.

The blow sent her reeling backwards and left the vet shaking only air with his besnotted right hand.

Stop it, you little bastards! Barbara shrieked, rushing to break up the fight.

Billy and Betty were rolling on the floor, snarling, spitting and violently punching one another. The vet produced a Flake bar from inside his jacket and handed it to Belinda. She licked her lips as she slowly peeled off the wrapper. She rolled her tongue lovingly over the chocolatey length for a moment, before sliding it into her mouth. The vet gazed deep into her desire filled eyes.

In order to distract him, Benkinsog cleared his throat. When that failed, he coughed loudly. Belinda pushed the Flake further and further into her mouth and moved her chest even closer to the salivating vet.

Benkinsog began coughing even more loudly, then performed realistic vomiting noises. His daughter's nipples were throbbing. He began jumping up and down, clapping his hands and grunting like a gorilla. The vet began suggestively rubbing his own crotch. Benkinsog stomped his feet on the floor, slapped his thighs and made loud farting noises. Belinda smiled and melted chocolate dribbled down her chin.

Benkinsog screeched like a banshee, unaware that his wife and two young children, battle forgotten, were staring at him as if he were mad, or at least extremely eccentric. His eyes bulged and his face was turning purple. He commenced a roaring of The Combine Harvester Song, which had once been a chart hit for the Wurzels, adding loud whoops every few seconds. The vet thrust the final inch of the Flake into Belinda's mouth.

Barbara reacted in order to prevent further indecency, as well as the bursting of a blood vessel by her husband.

Upstairs with you, young lady, she commanded, pushing Belinda in that direction. Have you no shame?

The spell broken, the vet suddenly remembered who and where he was. He cleared his throat and turned to Benkinsog who, not realising the crisis was past, was halfway through roaring the second verse of The Combine Harvester Song, whilst dancing like a demented fourteen stone leprechaun. Barbara punched him in the mouth in order to restore him to his senses, such as they were. Pouting angrily and choking on chocolate, Belinda flounced upstairs, taking the broom with her.

Benkinsog shook his head to clear away the stars dancing before his eyes, then rose shakily from the floor, wiping a trickle of blood from the left corner of his mouth. Barbara was poised to strike again, but it proved unnecessary. He was back in control of himself.

Adonis Longwilly, announced the vet. Sorry I took so long to get here, but I ran into a cowpat on the way and had to get my tyres cleaned. It's a pleasure to meet you and your family, Mr Benkinswig.

Just then, Billy and Betty remembered their fight and resumed it, with a shrieking vengeance. Barbara decided to ignore them. They would stop when one of them got hurt.

What happened to Mr Crapclobber? enquired Benkinsog. He's been our family vet for years.

Locked up, I'm afraid, replied Longwilly, his voice heavy with lack of concern. As you know, his wife passed away some time ago. Some contend that she died. Others hold that she either cashed in her chips, went to meet her maker or kicked the bucket. I've even heard it said that she's no longer with us. Anyway, after her demise, departure, death, whatever you want to call it, Mr Crapclobber emerged from the closet as a homosexual transvestite. And worse. He was picked up last Friday night, whilst trying to solicit a scarecrow for immoral purposes. The scarecrow turned out to be an undercover policeman in disguise.

What was he disguised as? asked Barbara.

A scarecrow, I believe, he answered. So, it was off to a maximum security mental institution with Mr Crapclobber and I was drafted in as his replacement. It's a change from Harley Street, I can tell you.

Who'd have thought? said Benkinsog, shaking his head.

Thought what? asked Barbara.

That Crapclobber, a man we've known all these years and trusted around our livestock, should turn out to be a dress wearing puff that fancies scarecrows. What's the 'kin world coming to?

What indeed? said Barbara, shaking her head. "It wasn't that long ago we could leave our front and back doors wide open at night and have nothing worse than marauding animals, rapists, escaped serial killers and burglars to worry about. Times are changing.

The Benkinsogs sighed and stared off into a golden past. The vet watched the twins beat one another to a bloody pulp on the floor. This, he reflected, must be one of the odder families around these parts. I wouldn't fancy meeting them down a dark alleyway. Or at the zoo. Suddenly remembering the present, Benkinsog directed his wife to make a pot of Bovril.

Now, what seems to be the problem? he asked the vet.

Longwilly brushed a speck of dust from his blue silk tie. To be honest, Mr Benkinshit, I'm baffled. Perhaps you could tell me.

It's my horse, said Benkinsog. "He's always