An auspicious grunt. A linguistical irony. Boar trouble. The broken foot. No poetess. A lucky cut of meat.

While Otto Ovum, the Feather Pharaoh had his home out on the flatlands, and the Butter King had his mansion near the western hills, the Pork Poet lived high above her stockyards, out of the stench, with a nice breeze. Her penthouse apartment was one of the taller structures in Tower City, and it was the highest building in the tangle of Confusion Street on the west side of town.

Sal was stopped at the gate of her stockyards, and he had to blink against the stink.

There were two Pig Hats at the gate, along with Petunia, the large, muscled woman who was Hamletti’s second in command. She was in clean leather armor, and in her hand was a long, ornate spear. It was an impressive weapon.

“I’m here to see Lady Hooftop,” Sal said. “You might remember me from my diner on Champion’s Plaza.”

Petunia grunted and turned away. She took herself and her spear down a path and out of sight.

Sal couldn’t tell if that was a good grunt, or a bad one.

“Excuse me,” he said to one of the other Pig Hats. “Was that an auspicious sound she made in the back of her throat? Or did that mean she found me a tiresome bother, late on a Sunday afternoon, when most good people are resting up for the coming week?”

The two men looked at each other, and one fingered his pig hat in confusion.

Sal sighed. Betty wouldn’t be happy with him. “What do you think happens now, good sirs?”

“Missus is gonna get the other missus,” one of the men said. “Then the missus gonna come talk to you.”

Sal wanted to make a joke about the man’s eloquence but then thought against it. He didn’t want to anger the man. Actually, he enjoyed the irony of someone with such a limited vocabulary working for someone who spoke as flowery as the Pork Poet.

The former Dark Lord bowed, “Thank you for the information.”

The two Pig Hats could care less, though each of them were looking at his short sword somewhat warily. Had word spread or was that just Sal’s imagination. He put a hand on the Fear Blade, and it felt so natural to be armed. It was a false sense of security though because the real battle he was fighting couldn’t be fought with steel.

It wasn’t long before Petunia returned with her spear and the Pork Poet in tow. Hamletti was in overly large linen trousers and a big silky blouse that had slipped to show one shoulder. Her hair was piled high on her head, and she wore reading glasses perched on the end of her nose. She wore the huge Yanir boots, with all the buckles, that seemed to be in fashion.

When she drew close, she frowned. “You who have come, invading my home, standing at my gate. What do you here, and let me be clear, I want you to ignore my state.” She squinted. “State of dress. I’ a mess.”

Sal held up a hand. “Thank you for rhyming, it pleases me, but it is not something I require. I would not come on a Sunday, normally, but my circumstances are dire.”

A little smile played on the woman’s lips. She motioned for Petunia to open the gate, which she did, and it wasn’t long before they were walking down a cobblestone path between two huge pig pens here any number of swine were eating, or standing, or doing other things that pigs did.

Sal thought she might ask for him to leave his sword with the guards at the gate, but she didn’t. That had to be a testament to their relationship. Hamletti liked him, and to be honest Sal liked her, though he really didn’t know her all that well. Her reputation was fairly good. She was a Braggadorio, and there were stories of Petunia and the rest of the Pig Hats cracking skulls, but generally, the Pork Poet left normal people alone. And she was very generous, giving to charity and providing Fabrizio with the occasional ham, and helping him flavor his lentils with pork sauce. Sal loved the flavor.

Perhaps the pigs knew about his appetites.

One boar stood staring at Sal. It was a massive thing, well over a thousand pounds, unnaturally large. Its two huge tusks were like scimitars jutting out from its snout. Without warning, the boar thundered across the pig pen and struck the fence, smashing it to pieces, and charging towards Petunia, who had leapt in front of her mistress.

Sal was back from them, and he could’ve let the scene play out, but he didn’t want anyone hurt. And besides, he had something he could use to help the situation.

He swept the Fear Blade from its sheath and sped in front of the women.

Raising the sword high, he waved it back and forth. “Away, swine, away. Lest you feel my fearsome strike!”

What were the ethics of killing pigs that would probably be slaughtered anyway? Betty did say murder was out of the question, and that included even insects. It seemed he could eat the meat of slaughter but not slaughter himself. That was a rather interesting distinction.

In the end, Sal didn’t want to kill the big boar. He just wanted to get it back into the pen. The other animals were crowding forward, but when they saw his sword, they went running to the far end of the pen.

The boar let out a squeal of terror and lowered his head to skewer Sal.

Thanks to his Youngin Reflexes, he dodged the tusks, but didn’t have such luck with a hoof, that stomped onto his foot, and he was reminded of his fight the night before when he’d stopped on that guy’s foot—Drew or Hugh? He couldn’t remember the name.

The crack of his bones breaking was a terrible sound.

Then the boar was heading toward Petunia.

Sal managed to grab a tusk, and he pulled and pulled, yanking the boar’s head around.

The huge pig turned to follow his head and that was when Petunia poked the boar in his backside, which sent him running back into the pen.

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Sal limped over, holding the Fear Blade aloft. None of the animals were going to trifle with him, but the magic sword worked a little too well.

The Pork Poet’s voice rose into a shriek. “Oh, fie, my heart is full of a fearful shade! Away, away, away put your blade.”

Sal sheathed his sword while other Pig Hats came running with boards. They quickly hammered the planks into place, sealing up the pen again.

Sal wound up on the ground, holding his foot, in complete agony. The adrenaline had held the pain at bay for a second. That second was gone. He was now officially in the worst pain of his life.

He barely saw the message that flashed in his vision.

<<<>>>

Wow! So heroic! Karmic Gauge increased by 46%. The life you saved was probably your own! Still, you used that sword to do some good. I’ll give you an additional 4% for good behavior. Nice work handling your demonic minion. That Dergle Driptongue is such a pill.

Current Karmic Gauge: 56% (Good Guy Green with a little Yellow)

<<<>>>

That was marvelous news, and he would’ve been celebrating, except for the small fact he has in agonizing pain. Also, he had no idea how he was going to run his business with most of the bones in his foot shattered into toothpicks. That was a bad problem to have for an entrepreneur such as himself.

His luck had turned from bad to worse.

Hamletti had some of her Pig Hats lift him up. “The fear is sharp no doubt in your heart. And the pain in your foot must of course smart. But I have a potion that will put you at ease. You will be fixed up as quick as you please.”

Sal was taken into a Gimm lifting platform, that took him away from the smell, and into the private chambers of the Pork Poet at the top of the tower. He soon found himself on Hamletti’s balcony, giving him a view of the city. He could see the Rat’s Den, and from there, he could find Fabrizio’s chapel. The Tower dominated the horizon, though the Church of the Sacred Family was there as well.

He laid down on a thickly cushioned couch, with his foot up. There were little glass and gold tables and other comfortable couches and sofas on the marble balcony high above the city. They were high above the pig pens, and you could hardly smell them. Sal was still in pain, but he had a depressing idea—the pigs smelled better than his café had when Tony Belly cursed it.

Petunia brought him a purple vial, and she handed it to him. “Thank you, for, uh, saving Lady Hooftop. That should fix your foot.” She then retreated, leaving him alone with the Pork Poet, who sat in a chair across from him, sipping wine.

Sal downed the potion, enjoying the sweet, rather bubbly flavor. He’d drank magical potions before, of course, but this one was particularly powerful. The pain in his foot was gone, immediately, and a rather pleasant tingling followed.

He stood up and was surprised to see he could stand without any trouble.

Hamletti set her glass down on a table and smiled at him.

He smiled back. “I feel much, much better. Truly, I am made whole.” He realized he didn’t have the sword, and he assumed the worst. “Excuse me, Hamletti, but I seemed to have lost the Fear Blade. I would very much like to have it back.”

The woman didn’t answer. “And where did you get such an enchanted sword? Rumors abound, they ride on the wind, a gossip storm.” She sighed. “I tried to alter my words to avoid the rhyme. And yet they twist back on me all the time.”

Sal sat down on the couch across from her. “I will purposefully keep my language plain, though I mostly fail at such a task. I have friends who tease me that I have trouble speaking in a duller manner. And here I am, embellishing. As for the sword, in truth, I found it in my café, when I first arrived. I did not know of its magical properties, and I gave it to brigands. However, the thought of bad men wielding a weapon that I gave them made me uneasy.”

“It was the Butter King’s brigands, that was who had the blade. You do not need to answer for I see the face you made.” She winced. “I do so apologize. The words just rise. Like there. I cannot help it, I swear.”

Sal laughed a little, though his stomach was churning. Was she going to give the magical sword back to the Butter King?

He gulped in a breath. “Yes, the men were in your territory when they thought to intimate me. I was new in town, just having met the Ponti.”

She smiled. “Ah, Fabrizio.” She laughed. “And here I find myself silent, for rhyming with Fabrizio is not a simple thing. At least there, my mind is quiet.”

“What makes you rhyme do you think?” Sal said, carefully not to say rhyme all the time.

Hamletti’s face lost all expression. “It is an old habit, carefully constructed, an act of rebellion, against my father, who wanted his son to rule. Jeremy would’ve done so, but no, fate had other plans for him to know. And here I was, lost in books, and I wanted my father to look my way, but there wasn’t a day that he did. Internal rhyme is rhyme just the same. There. I broke from it.”

Sal found it a bit strange when she didn’t rhyme. Her sentence just seemed to end with a ragged edge. And yet, he didn’t want to encourage her addiction.

The Pork Poet continued. “I decided to rhyme to annoy him, dear dad, who was bad, but not as bad as the real bad dad, which would be Alikor, but I’ll talk no more of him. The chances of me ruling were slim, until Lactosier the First, bad to his core, took Jeremy away, away, away from me. In a bid for power, came my finest hour, and I took over the reins of my pork empire. And this is why, I do not allow, anyone to call me the Pork Poetess, for my gender has given me such stress, and now I am simply a poet with a pig farm and nothing more.”

Sal wanted the woman to know he understood her story. “Lactosier the First, I am assuming is the Butter King, and he was the one who killed your brother. Your father had no choice but for his daughter to inherit his empire. And you did, rhyming all the while, and now you find you cannot stop.”

“You are correct in all that you say,” she said sadly. “And while my dad was bad, my brother was not, and I miss him continually, with nearly every thought. The power was not worth, but any way, I talk long, and now you are strong, and we can continue with our business.”

“The bacon, yes.” Sal paused, hating that the truth, again, was going to make things difficult. ‘I would like my sword back. And while I think my finances will allow it, I won’t know the truth of my ledger for some weeks as my café gets off the ground. And so, I am asking for some lenience when it comes to payment.”

The Pork Poet looked amused. “Your weapon will be returned to you. As for our business, we might not be” she paused, the word “through” hanging in the air. She titled her hand. “We might not be at an impasse. I can give you some credit as well as a pass, for you are taking meat that I do use, so to profit on it would be a great…trick.”

Sal smiled. “Perhaps I like this new way you are avoiding your rhyme. I like the ghost of the word hanging in the air.” He was a bit relieved, but he wouldn’t be happy until he had the sword back in his hand.

In the end, he was given the sword back, and then he showed her the part of the pig he needed, how to cut it, and the kind of meat he was looking for— meat cut in long narrow slices across the pig’s belly, so it was mixture of pink and white fat. Sal didn’t want his meat to spoil, and so he suggested that Hamletti cure it in salt and then cold smoke it. She had what she needed to do both, since she was used to salting and smoking other parts of the pig.

She thought she could have some for him by the end of the week.

And he was very relieved, on all counts, that she would be so generous.

They agreed on a price, and Sal found himself walking back to his diner, thinking of the strange woman and her rhyming. There was very bad blood between her and the Butter King, but if Sal had to take sides, he would side with Hamletti.

He liked her a great deal. And she must like him, for not only did she give him credit for the bacon, she had given him back his sword. She needn’t have done either.

When Sal reached Champion Street, he tore the yellow ribbon away, and carried it into his restaurant. He tossed it in the trash, and then found Betty on the table.

The mouse sniffed the air. “You smell brimstone?”

Sal did. And he knew that Dergle was going to take his sweet time getting that gnocchi recipe. Sal just might have to take matters into his own hands.

He told her about Dergle, and the mouse took it in stride.

Betty shrugged. “Well, we shouldn’t be surprised, Ace, that your past showed up to haunt you. This diner has ghosts, yeah, sure, buddy, but so do you.”

Sal knew she was right. Why did that depress him so?