The plan was simple. Kill the pig and barbecue its parts in glee and passionate greed. Johnny would orchestrate, participate and do the slaughter himself. But hearts weren't simple as a blank piece of paper which was how this story came to my ears. Johnny brought the pig to the main hall for the ghastly affair. this hall in the castle of kings was made to feel grandiose. the pillars were lit with candles with thick licks that never seemed to burn away, and its floor was darkened by looming expensive persian rugs hung from the marble ceiling, its walls were made to perfect medieval ornery with elaborate painting of crying jesters and deviously smiling kings and queens. it was hardly a place of mercy. He tied the pig to the hall's centerpiece altar. The pig seemed to be in starry eyes, perhaps in admiring the beautiful yet sinister dark arts in its surroundings. it didn't move much like a restrained tiger would maul and grovel. it was silent. it was guilty. its eyes closed as if in prayer. Johnny got a chalice for its blood and a sharp knife to drain its life away. He tested the blade's ruthlessness by carassing it into splitting a strand of hair, eyes unwavering from the pig. In long strides towards the livestock and a knife in hand, a heart of two intentions in him knew not many pigs deserved a barbecued death but that particular tubby destroyed too many things. just too many memories that mattered. But he was no cold undertaker. He turned away in shameful apathy in action. The pig had husks, It lunged into his back, piercing his heart. a man's downfall attributed only in a folly of the heart. but the pig had ran away, unscathed, out to wreck other precious things.