The Heart of a Pig

Part IV: "Severing the Binds"

Severing the Binds

“Have you ever met a billionaire?” Chris asked. “They’re different, even from other rich people. They’re so compact, so smooth, like their bodies are coated in non-stick silicone—flesh Teflon. I had one client whose body reminded me of an antihistamine tablet. Their clothes never quite fit properly. They’re always about to slide off.”

Chris gazed at his cats, his face so stricken with pity they might have just been injected with a euthanasia drug. I thought he was about to call off what was starting to feel like his death-bed confession, but he rallied his emotional forces and went once more unto the breach.

“It’s only in-person that you see the malice roiling beneath the smooth surfaces. I’m not saying all billionaires are occultists, but their lives enact powerful occult rituals whether they know it or not. My client, Ted, he was a true believer. In just under five years he’d purchased almost a million dollars in books and relics from me, and I was only one of his dealers. I made a lot of money from him. I’m implicated in this.” He cupped his big knobby and for several seconds stared down into the hollow. “If I’d known the contents of the leather satchel, would I’ve turned down the job? Please. Fifty thousand dollars and a trip to Ted’s Fantasy Island on a private jet—like fuck, I would have turned it down. I wanted the job, I wanted the money. And I wanted the exposure, the contact high of precious cargo and the men who can purchase it.”

This was too much. I felt embarrassed for Chris: he seemed mesmerized by an overwrought despair I associated with late adolescence. He wasn’t faking it, though, just as I wasn’t imagining the sensation of a third presence slowly colonizing the apartment.

“Driving along the beach road,” Chris continued, “the mansion, which is all glass and steel and bamboo, it shimmers in the distance like a crystal fountain. Then there’s a dip in the road, and when you crest the hill you’re practically in the driveway. Ted met me in the massive atrium that opens out onto the beach. He wore a spotless white shirt and tan chinos, and his skin was lightly tanned, just enough to give his skin a healthy glow. He said hello, and for a millisecond I detected a vulgar human hunger in his eyes when they locked on the leather satchel. He stood by the koi pond and the Zen rock garden radiating health and power, a man in total command of his celestial element. And then, like a fruit fly floating in a thousand-dollar glass of champagne, a twitch in one eye marred the picture of optimal human luxury. For the merest fucking millisecond, his eyes slipped free of his control to gaze with vulgar human need at the satchel I was carrying. My God, I thought, Ted is jonesing for whatever’s in this bag. That should have been warning enough to make me run back to the plane. But maybe because he was so relieved to see the package, he invited me for lunch. I was in no position to refuse.”

A boisterous crowd exited the restaurant below, reminding me of the world outside, a world of friendships and common human desires. Like Chris on his client’s private island, I felt obligated to see an offer of hospitality to its natural end, and like Chris, my instinct was to flee as fast as my feet would take me.

“On the way to the dining room, Ted said, ‘I like you, Chris, as much as I’m capable of liking any man.’ I was flattered that he’d make a joke with a peon like me, and so when he asked if I wanted to see what was in the bag, he didn’t needed an answer. I would have said yes anyways, but he had me in his palm. Of course the lunch was excellent. Not gourmet or anything. Just enough calories, electrolytes, proteins, and antioxidants to ensure maximum focus and productivity for the afternoon. I felt good.”

Chris either couldn’t remember what they talked about over lunch or didn’t think it was important. He said that during a dessert of lychee sorbet Ted told him that the satchel contained a single manuscript page. Ted bought it from a Chechen warlord, paying the man enough money to re-arm an entire battalion. He would have given triple the price if asked.

The dishes were cleared. The butler served green tea. And when Chris looked over at the satchel again, the military-grade cables binding the contents were neatly severed.

“Have you ever had your life threatened?” Chris asked me. “Like, for real? A credible threat triggers several physiological reactions. Your testicles retract. Your mouth goes dry and your vision tunnels. You can hear a pin drop and your hairs stand on end. Millions of years of facing down wild animals and raiders from the next village bred that into us. When I saw those cables, cut without a fucking sound while we were eating lunch, fear took me back a million years. I was back on the savannah, flint spear in hand. Fight or flight—what was it gonna be? Fight or flight. Well, I’m a modern man if nothing else, so I sat there shit-scared doing nothing. I guess I was hoping Ted would explain how a pair of half-inch tungsten cables were severed while we ate our lunch. And he did.”

Chris shuddered, and I realized I’d never actually seen a person shudder before. It’s different from shivering. Shivering is localized to the body. Shuddering is a metaphysical response. Shuddering is the action of a soul in failed flight from the body imperilled. I’d never seen a man so scared.

“Ted told me. He told me everything.”

Part V of The Heart of a Pig, “The Billionaire’s Tale,” will appear over the weekend. To read Part I, click here; to read Part II, here; Part III is here. Keep the comments coming, and if you like the story, please share the joy on your social media channels.