Pig Man huffs down the row and slips his bag from his shoulder on to the empty seat beside him. He grunts when he lands in the chair and the chair grunts, too. He is with his brother, another Pig Person, and they drink milkshakes with extra whipped cream from clear plastic cups, reclined, hooves up on the seats in front of them. They suck and slurp from long green straws and pause only to breathe heavily and communicate in a simple language neither speaks well. Their voices are loud, their breathing louder. Pig Man checks his telephone and click-clacks a message with a ham-thumb to “Diane” at the top of the screen. Who could love Pig Man, a third grade science experiment aborted improperly and allowed to grow like mold left unchecked until it sprouted ears and a tail and a neck with three chins that rest on the chest and shoulders of a floral print button up shirt. Bing, bing says telephone as someone click-clacks back. “Diane” or maybe someone from the trough. Pig Man and Pig Brother are having milkshakes instead of slop. A few last slurps then they’re gone. The lights dim but they continue to talk. Oink, oink. Buzz cut, rolls of yellowed flesh around the neck. A stink wafts back. Who could love Pig Man.