The High-Mileage Pig

This is a contest entry for

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The prompt was: 250 miles per gallon? They're doing it.



“My pig gets two-hundred and fifty miles to the gallon,” said the scrawniest guy at the bar, tossing his drink back with a triumphant grin. That’d show the others he wasn’t a total fool.

Conversation at the counter ceased immediately as a dozen pairs of eyes turned on him. For a moment, there was complete silence, then a roar of laughter caused his grin to falter.

“What the hell you talking about, Jack?” the one next to him asked, laughing and slapping his meaty hand on the smaller man’s shoulder, knocking his drink over. Beer spread over the bar as Jack coughed.

“Yeah,” chortled another. “And guess what? My rat gets a thousand miles to the teaspoon! Tell that to yer pig!” There was another roar of laughter. Even the barkeeper smiled as he wiped up the spill.

Jack chuckled uncertainly. “Wha’daya you mean, your rat? And a thousand miles to the teaspoon? That makes no sense!”

“Listen to the kid!” said another, waving the barkeeper over for a refill. “Saying someone else don’t make sense. Didja know my elephant can get fifty feet to the assload?” He laughed a little too loudly and slid off his stool, splashing beer down his front. Everyone else laughed, and someone kicked at him to get back up.

“What the hell are you guys talking about?” Jack asked, flabbergasted. “Are you all that drunk?”

He was ignored as his beefier companions talked over his head, each crafting more and more ridiculous statements until the bar was roaring with laughter, drowning out the talks of other patrons.

“My cat gets a billion farts to the can!”

“Yeah? Well my chimp gets ‘af a keg to the moon and back!”

Slowly, the bar began to empty, leaving the group to their drinks. Jack, having been expelled from the conversation, sat a bit apart and nursed his beer, grumbling to himself about friends who couldn’t hold their alcohol.

Eventually, the others left, their motorcycles roaring briefly outside before fading into the night. Jack was left alone, thoroughly disgusted with the evening, finishing his last drink before the bar closed. When he stood, he staggered slightly, weaving toward the door. The barkeeper followed him, mop in hand, to lock the door behind his last customer.

Before Jack stepped outside into the cool night air, the barkeeper put a gentle hand on his arm to stop him. Jack gave the other man a blank look, struggling to focus bleary eyes.

“I heard the conversation, bud. I didn’t want to interrupt, but I think you ought to know: they’re called hawgs, not pigs.” Jack blinked, uncomprehending. The other man sighed and pushed him outside, locking the door behind them.

“Come on,” he said, leading Jack away from his bike. “I’ll drive you home. I wouldn’t trust you on a bike tonight, high mileage or no.”