#comedyfiction

🌲 Packing for the day should be simple. It rarely is when assumptions get involved. 🌰

Sebastian rested his foot on a rock and took a deep breath. A shiver ran down his spine as he adjusted the straps over his shoulders. He rubbed his chin and stared down the twisting path as it wound up the mountain like a noodle someone dropped onto a pile of dirty dishes. His gaze swept up to the pine trees leaning overhead as the whispering wind jostled the dangling needles.

Thump.

Sebastian cringed as his shoulders jumped to his ears. As several more wet thuds squelched out, his shoulders fell. He turned to find Jimmy yanking a heavy canvas sack. The bag sailed through the air and collided with the ground, creating another wet squelch.

“Jimmy…,” Sebastian rubbed his eyes as his head shook. “Why is your bag arguing with gravity?”

“What are you talking about?” Jimmy wiped his brow with his sleeve. He hauled the bag up to his shoulder as he marched forward, swaying with each step. “Nobody can argue with gravity. It’s a force of nature.”

“That’s…” Sebastian slammed a fist into his palm, “what’s weighing your bag down?”

“Oh, that question makes more sense.”

“Could you answer it?”

Jimmy dropped the sack down next to Sebastian and clapped his friend’s shoulder as his smile grew wider. “It’s mushrooms.”

Sebastian bent down and grabbed a corner of the sack, lifting an edge. “Mushrooms, unless there’s far too many in there, don’t thud.”

Jimmy shook his head, reclaiming the bag as he levered it onto his shoulder. “That’s true unless they’re determined. These are very determined.”

“What are you talking about?”

“That’s too complicated to explain.” As Jimmy turned to stare down the path, the bag swung like a wrecking ball, smacking Sebastian’s hip. “What’s down there?”

Sebastian’s arms flailed before he fell to the ground with a grunt. “Jimmy! Be more careful with that sack!”

Jimmy turned back to his friend and offered Sebastian a hand as he steadied the bag. “See? Very solid mushrooms.”

After climbing to his feet, Sebastian dusted off his pants before jabbing a finger into Jimmy’s chest. “Walk me through your thought process.”

“You said we were exploring a mountain trail today,” Jimmy said, hiking the bag further up his back.

“I did.”

“We would spend the entire day exploring every inch.”

“I’m with you so far.”

Jimmy smiled as he brandished the sack. “I packed lunch since our stay today will extend for many hours...

A Short Story from Red Creek, Australia (1970)

Australia, 1970.

The town of Red Creek was the sort of place where news traveled faster than the mail and twice as inaccurately. It had one dusty road, a pub that leaned slightly to the left like a tired man, and farms that stretched into a flat horizon where the sun seemed to bake the earth into stubborn silence.

Most days, nothing happened.

Which is precisely why the pig caused so much trouble.

It began on a Tuesday morning when Harold McGrath woke up to a sound that did not belong on his property.

A snort.

Then another.

Harold sat up in bed. For thirty years he had lived on that farm, and he could identify every sound the land produced: wind through fence wire, cattle shifting at dawn, kookaburras laughing like drunk men.

But this sound was unmistakable.

A pig.

He threw on his boots, stomped outside, and there it was—standing proudly in the middle of his vegetable patch like it had paid rent.

A massive pink pig.

Harold squinted at it.

“Well I’ll be damned,” he muttered.

The pig looked up from chewing his pumpkins and snorted again as if to say good morning.

Harold already knew whose pig it was.

There was only one man in Red Creek careless enough to let an animal wander like that.

Franklin Doyle.

Frank lived on the neighboring farm and had the sort of personality that made people grind their teeth quietly in church. He laughed too loudly, talked too much at the pub, and had once claimed his pigs were “smarter than half the town council.”

Harold stared at the pig, which had now discovered his tomatoes.

“Oh no you don’t,” Harold growled.

The pig ignored him.

By noon the pig had destroyed:

• half the pumpkins

• most of the tomatoes

• and something Harold had been trying to grow for two years that he wasn’t even sure was a zucchini anymore.

Harold marched straight down the dirt road toward Frank’s farm.

Frank was leaning against his fence drinking tea like the world owed him something.

“Frank,” Harold said.

Frank smiled.

“Morning, Harold.”

“Your pig is in my garden.”

Frank shrugged.

“They roam.”

“They what?”

“They roam. Healthy pigs roam.”

Harold stared at him.

“Your pig ate my pumpkins.”

Frank sipped his tea.

“Well Harold,” he said thoughtfully, “maybe your pumpkins shouldn't have been so delicious.”

That was the moment the war began.

---

The next morning Harold built a fence.

A large fence.

A very determined fence.

Frank watched from across the field with mild curiosity.

Two hours later, the pig walked straight through it.

Harold stared in disbelief.

Frank walked over casually.

“See?” Frank said proudly. “Smart pig.”

Harold said nothing.

The following day Harold installed a gate.

The pig opened it.

Frank nearly cried laughing.

Harold spent that night sitting on his porch staring into the dark countryside with the quiet focus of a man considering crime.

---

On Thursday Harold retaliated.

He captured the pig.

This required three ropes, a wheelbarrow, and language that would have made a priest resign.

He rolled the pig all the way back to Frank’s farm and dropped it in front of the house.

Frank came outside.

“Well now,” Frank said.

“Keep your pig,” Harold replied.

Frank scratched his beard.

“Harold, this ain’t my pig.”

Harold blinked.

“What?”

Frank pointed across the field.

Three identical pigs were now wandering toward Harold’s garden.

Harold’s face turned the color of boiled beetroot.

“You have four pigs?!”

“Five,” Frank corrected politely.

Harold slowly removed his hat.

“That’s it.”

---

By Saturday the entire town of Red Creek knew about the pig war.

The pub had begun taking bets.

Mrs. Delaney from the general store sold lemonade to spectators sitting on overturned crates near the road.

Two farmers from twenty miles away drove in just to watch.

Harold escalated first.

He built a trench.

Frank countered by teaching the pigs to walk around it.

Harold bought a whistle that frightened pigs.

Frank bought two more pigs.

By Sunday afternoon Harold’s garden looked like a battlefield.

Pumpkins exploded.

Tomatoes crushed under hooves.

Cabbage scattered like artillery debris.

The pigs wandered proudly through the chaos like victorious generals.

Harold stood in the wreckage, covered in dirt, holding a broken rake.

Frank approached slowly.

They stared at the destruction.

Neither spoke for a long moment.

Finally Frank said quietly:

“Hell of a war.”

Harold sighed.

Frank looked around.

“Tell you what.”

“What.”

“We call it a draw.”

Harold rubbed his face.

“Fine.”

Frank nodded.

They stood there watching the pigs eat the last of the pumpkins.

After a moment Frank added:

“You know… pigs are good for soil.”

Harold slowly turned his head.

“Frank.”

“Yes?”

“Take your pigs.”

Frank grinned.

The pigs snorted.

And somewhere in the distance, the people of Red Creek laughed for weeks about what they would forever remember as:

⚓ Beneath a sign that bans nets and drama, one man prepares for clerical work while the other prepares for maritime combat. 🪓

Jimmy stared at the sign hanging over his friend. He squinted at the simple words carved into the swinging plank. He glanced down at his equipment and huffed as he hurried to the pier and jostled Sebastian’s shoulder. “What’s with banning fishing, nets, and drama? Didn’t we come to hunt for our lunch?” Sebastian’s head shook as he turned and tucked a clipboard under his arm. When he finished turning around, his shoulders sank as if gravity had grown personal. He reached down and tapped the ax in Jimmy’s grasp. It wasn’t a large one. Rather, it was a compact hand ax that looked as if it might apologize after chopping something. “Jimmy, what is this?” “It’s my ax,” Jimmy said, pulling it away from Sebastian. “What about it?” Sebastian closed his eyes. “Walk me through your reasoning.” “What do you want to know?” Sebastian clapped his friend’s shoulder. “Let’s start simple. Why are you bringing forestry equipment to a body of water?” Jimmy stepped back from his friend, licking his lips. “Because you mentioned we’d be hunting something with tentacles.” Sebastian struck his forehead. “I said you might need your spectacles to sort testimonials.” Jimmy lifted his hand ax, staring at the capped edge. He shook his head and took a step forward. “Why are we at a marina if not for calamari? Are you sure we’re not searching for octopuses? I mean they have tentacles, don’t they!” “Testimonials,” Sebastian said, as he snatched the tool from his friend’s grasp. He placed it on a nearby cubby and tapped the overhead sign with his clipboard. “Don’t forget the rules. We can’t fish on this pier.” “How will we get the seafood?” Taking a deep breath, Sebastian tucked the board under his arm. He pointed at the nearby building and grinned. “We are here to assist the marina manager with her website.” “How does that help with getting lunch?” “If we complete the work she has, she’ll pay us. Then we can have a good meal.” Jimmy’s face pinched as he eyed his ax. “If we’re not hunting the critters who live under the water, then why’d you talk about dealing with tentacles?” “Testimonials,” Sebastian said, thrusting a finger towards two boxes pressed against the building’s wall. “She wants us to sift through the reviews and determine the best ones to pull for the website.” As if to punctuate Sebastian’s words, the marina manager stormed out of the building and slammed the door in her wake. The tall, sunburned woman carried the authority of someone who had shouted down hurricanes and won. She eyed the ax laying on the nearby cubby and wiped her mouth. “What’s that thing doing here?” Jimmy stepped toward his tool, his smile widening. “I brought that in case diplomacy failed...

Today in the feed, please enjoy a fav dark comedy of ours @humanbgon about a crew of robots tasked with cleaning up the last of us pesky little humans like vermin.

We are happy to be hosted today by the ineffable @humanbgon and their feed. We are in definitely good company.

INT. TRAIN STATION - MORNING

PETER (22, red hair, blue hoody) sits on a bench next to SARAH (19, blue hair, black leather jacket).

PETER: Why are we in Kentucky?

SARAH: (tired, irritated) Why must you always ask questions like that?

PETER: (changing topic) I haven't had a hot dog in several months.

SARAH: What?

PETER: I could really go for a hot dog right now. The last one I ate was in Chicago. We shoulda gone to Chicago. Why are we in Kentucky?

SARAH: Because you're madly in love with me, and you're going along for the ride.