It started with a post on Facebook from Mickey Martin’s pub.
Dear whoever vandalized our Pig.
We have a clear image of you both on our CCTV at 2.50am.
We would like to give you an opportunity to contact us before we contact Henry St.
The Injured Party
What was this? Pig-attacking? Could it be true or was someone telling porkies?
Aghast, I sent in a team to investigate, and sure enough, the early, grainy photos confirmed that the atrocity had happened.
The control room at Mickey Central was alive with rumour. Some said it was the action of pig-hating Islamic extremists. Other claimed it was just a pigñata. Conspiracy theorists hinted at darker forces — could this be the work of elite pig-seals? A botched kidnap attempt?
Well, somebody observed, to kidnap it would have been a rash act, but this was even rasher.
The head Mickey Commando looked grim as he chomped on a fat cigar. If they’re lookin’ for truffle, he growled, they came to the right place.
We’re not puddin’ up with this, agreed his Supreme Leader.
Hot dog! snarled the Mickey Commando. We’ll smoke ’em out. I ain’t takin’ no more hogwash.
But what if they were only ribbing? asked a passing bystander.
We’ll soon cure ’em of that habit.
Hmmm. This didn’t look good. The Mickey Commandos were in an ugly mood and it was hard to blame them. If someone squealed, the pig-seals’ lives wouldn’t be worth a sausage.
Time to go, I grunted.
Later – much later – in a dark and dingy bar somewhere uptown, I braced the bartender, a well-known snout, and showed him the picture.
That looks doctored, he said.
Excuse me, I bristled.
Well, he said, that’s the most hamfisted kidnapping I’ve ever seen. They made a pig’s ear of it, but as they sow, so shall they reap. The whole thing is littered with clues.
God, I said, I can’t take much more of this. Give me a bourbon. On the rocks.