"A giant pickle?" A curious Iggy asks himself. He peeks closely and looks at the pickle's face.
This was nothing new to him, as all vegetables in his place have faces. Other crops are starting to get curious, climbing on Iggy's shoulder...
Iggy takes the tomato on his shoulder and casually bites it, identifying the pickle.
"This could be a world record!" He said to himself, excitedly.
He takes the giant pickle to his house with sheer excitement.
42 inches. 4 pounds.
An impressed Iggy nods in approval.
He rings the snail.
"Hello, Can you redirect me to the World Records Society?"
No answer.
He looks at his hand, holding a snail as a telephone. Staring at it blankly, he casually puts the snail down.
Iggy rings the telephone.
"Hello, Can you redirect me to the World Records Society?" Iggy asks.
A muttered reply from the other side of the phone talks to Iggy.
Silence.
"This is the World Records Society, how can I help you?"
"Uhh, what's the size of the world's largest pickle?"
"Hmm... Let me see..."
Book flaps are heard from the telephone line.
"Um, sir, the record holder is at 44.5 inches. Do you own a world record pickle we can measure?"
"No thanks." Iggy replied, ending the call.
"Man, we're three inches short..." Iggy says to himself, but he keeps his composure.
"Oh well."
He picks up a conveniently placed knife from nowhere and lifts it, his mouth watering, his eyes like that of a hypnotized man.
"You're my lunch then."
He walks towards the giant pickle. Stars in Iggy's eyes, he takes the first slice.
The pickle wakes up.
"aaaaAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHH!"
A ferocious scream was let out. The pickle is in pain???
"MY BODY! MY PRECIOUS BODY~!" The pickle says to himself. He then looks at the behemoth in front of him: Iggy.
"Why aren't you screaming? I have a face." The pickle asks Iggy.
"You're in Little Farmland, of course you have faces!"
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"Ah, makes sense." The pickle replies.
Iggy looks at Iggy's hand. On it is a plate with a fork and some chopped vegetables.
"Wait a goddamn minute, YOU'RE GONNA EAT ME!?" An anxious pickle asks.
"Hehe, you're a funny one, Of course I will, you're a vegetable!" Iggy replies.
"I'm no vegetable, I'm a fruit. Wait, enough of that, NO WAY, NO FRICKING WAY YOU'RE GONNA EAT ME!"
"Huh weird, you guys usually enjoy getting eaten. Right, tomato?"
The smiling tomato gets swallowed whole by a kid in dreadlocks.
A disgusted face takes over the giant pickle.
"Psycho... I gotta get out of here!" The pickle whispers to himself.
"Come again?" Iggy replies.
"I said PSYCHO, I GOTTA GET OUT OF HERE, I'M NOT FROM HERE. Got it?"
"...You're not from here?"
The pickle breathes in.
"Look. I was sent here... By The Industry. A creative society, the higher-ups of humanity. You know... The gods?"
"...Aren't they just plain humans but with the power to bring stories to life and stuff?"
"Ah, shoot, he got through me." The pickle emotionlessly replies.
An incandescent light bulb from Iggy.
"Well, if you're from there, then... Look at this cool script I made!"
Iggy rushes to get his story from the table and gives it to the pickle. From nowhere, The pickle randomly grows hands and equips his eyeglasses, scouring through the pages.
"Writer told me it's a really good script!"
"Oh, Writer?" The pickle replies as he does a read-through of Iggy's script.
"You know him?" Iggy asks the pickle.
"Yeah, a friend of mine in The Industry. Anyway about your script... It's..."
A surprised pickle adjusts his eyeglasses.
"An eight."
"An eight?" Iggy asks.
"You don't get it. That's a really high number! Impressive!" The pickle replies with excitement.
"Really!?"
"Yeah!"
The pickle takes a closer look at the script.
"If you keep this pace, you'll get accepted by The Industry in no time! Heck, your life! You're spared! You're fricking spared, dude!"
"...Spared from what?"
The pickle's excited face turned sour the moment he heard those words.
"...Writer didn't tell you?"
"Didn't tell you about what?"
"Kid..."
Iggy tilts his head a bit in curiosity.
"..."
"...This town is dead in 30 minutes."
Horror in Iggy's eyes.
A little while later, Iggy, who brought along the giant pickle, barges out of the workshop using his wheelbarrow. A few tomatoes managed to tag along.
"So, what does the bad guy look like? Unique? Crazy? Delusional? Stereotypical?" Iggy asks while controlling the wheelbarrow's direction.
"Stereotypical, yes. He's total darkness, a shadow lurking everywhere. Has a pet electric eel."
"I'm writing that down in my head, sounds like a great antagonist." Iggy replies.
"You just had to say it, don't you?" The giant pickle sarcastically says.
"Why is this bad guy after us, anyway?"
"He's after uncreative people, kid."
"Uncreative what context?" Iggy asks.
"That's EXACTLY why he's dangerous, he kills anyone who he THINKS is uncreative!"
Iggy reflects on himself as he listens to the pickle's words.
"And all of this is just tell... We'll get to the show part later."
The words of the townsfolk rush back to Iggy's head.
"What we're trying to say is that we're tired of getting bombarded by worthless bullshit coming out of your fucking mouth."
"They're too focused on the drought... They have no time to get inspired by anything..." Iggy says.
"HEY! EVERYONE! MY STORY IS DONE~"
"SHUT UP!"
A silent pause.
"...You sure about all of this, Pickle?"
"Yeah. I'm confident."
"...I'll eat you if none of this is real."
The pickle looks back at the distance.
Later on, Iggy rings the village bell.
No response. Barely any door creaks are heard.
"No one's listening..." Iggy thinks to himself after ringing the bell.
"Something bad happened." He added.
Iggy looks around him. The dead treehouse is seen from a distance. Iggy snaps.
"Oh no... The kids!"
"There are kids in this town!?" The pickle asks.
"What town doesn't have kids!?" Iggy impatiently replies.
"Oh, right... Sorry."
A few moments later, Iggy sets his foot under the treehouse. From behind the mill are seven shivering children. Iggy takes notice of them.
"Thank goodness! You guys are safe!"
He cuddles himself among the children.
"Come on, we'll get you all out of here~"
One of the kids gestures the silent finger. Iggy retreats his hands.
A gust of dark wind from behind.
"...My little creative geniuses."
Iggy leans back in horror. An off-tune piano chord plays.
Children sitting down, traumatized by that one entity on the pedestal.
His name is Massacre.
"Who... Are you?" Iggy asks, stuttering.
"The purge of uncreative misery. There's no point in turning back."
Silence from the pickle. Dilated eyes everywhere.
"I killed them all."