The World According to
Naught E. Piggy
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ettling into the emergency aisle seat on Malaysian Airlines flight TG042, I stretched out my legs and elbows as much as economy class would allow a person to do. I’d just started back into my latest paperback novel when the PA system came on in no less than three different languages. It was loud and distorted enough to be un-ignorable, thus interrupting my read. I first recognized the sing-song lilt of Thai; the bouncing Malaysian was readily identifiable; then in English, the flight attendant announced, “Please excuse the delay ladies and gentlemen, but we are boarding one remaining passenger who requires assistance. It will only be a few more minutes.”
From my seat at the door, I craned my neck forward so I could see for whom we waited. Perhaps, it would be some well heeled VIP or a lonely, beautiful TV star to come and sit beside me, I fantasized. There was an audible commotion just beyond my field of vision after which I witnessed a flurry of activity as a group of four tall, dark Malaysian men in green, satiny uniforms pushed a hospital gurney down the Jetway. Naught E. Piggy sat upright upon this elevated dais with the air of self assumed royalty. His face was powdered white and he wore the classical Islamic head scarf of the Malaysian woman. He waved to an imaginary crowd as he rolled along, looking something not unlike Marlon Brando from the late 90’s film The Island of Doctor Moreau.
“That’ll be all, boys.” He said as he rolled to a stop, dismissing his escort with a haughty, back-handed hoof flick. He climbed into the seat beside me and buckled himself in. In silence, he pretended to busy himself by checking the contents of the ashtray, reading the duty-free catalog, and filing his hoofs with an imaginary emery board.
The Airbus taxied out to the tarmac and flared its Rolls Royce engines even before finishing the final turn onto the runway. NP’s eyes were clenched shut tighter than the pair of sphincters on a Siamese-twin mountain climber. He gripped the armrests fiercely. His tension visibly showed upon his quivering chins. In a moment’s time we were thrusting upward with incredible force into the hazy Asian sky.
As we leveled off, the seatbelt sign beeped; and a sigh of relief came from the few hundred passengers who un-clicked their seatbelts in unison. I leaned over, tapping my book and said to NP, “Did you know that they used to dip bullets in pig’s blood as a deterrent against Islamic martyrdom?”
“You’re making that up!” He snorted; his face florid.
“Yeah, I am.” I admitted.
“You don’t like me anymore!” NP sulked and angrily flailed his hoofs in the air, as they could not reach the floor. “Well, you can’t get rid of me that easy!” He was wearing an oversized T-shirt that covered his body like a dress. It read: Eat pork, roast in hell! A well soiled application of gauze was attempting to cover some freshly healing keloid tissue around his recently smoked shanks.
“You’re fresh from the hospital.” I finally acknowledged.
“My God, your powers of observation are uncanny. Have you considered a career as a crime scene investigating a-hole?” He snapped. “How could you leave me there all alone? I couldn’t stand it in there any longer: the poking; the prodding; the constant disruptions. I couldn’t even watch TV without someone trying to slather some salve on my sacred regions!”
“We need to work on some original material for you.” I observed.
“You want original or extra crispy, you a-hole!” he sneered and canted a menacing pork butt in my direction.
“You’re reaching, NP.” I said. “There’s nothing sacred about you.”
“That’s just it!” He squirmed around turning sideways in his seat and looked at me doe-eyed. “That’s why I’m coming with you. I need a break. My fans are boring of me. They just aren’t giving me the succor I require as an artist.”
“What fans?” I asked.
When he didn’t answer I asked, “So, you’re an artist now?” Honestly, I was slightly intrigued by the potential.
“Oh, shut up. It’s very personal, and besides you’re probably too stupid to begin to fathom my art anyhow.” He seemed to turn inward to brood upon some murky image in the extremely shallow depth of his psyche.
‘Don’t be so testy. And, if you’re too sensitive to discuss your art, then you shut up and let me get back to my book,” I added a harrumph of my own and found the page where I left off held by the stub of my boarding pass.
My eyes scanned the words on the page, but my mind was elsewhere. Naught E. Piggy, the artist. How compelling! Nearly a minute had passed when I couldn’t help but notice from the corner of my eye NP writhing and shifting in the constraints in his seat.
I was obliged to ask, “Yes?”
“You said, Testie.” He giggled an insuppressible, contagious laughter akin to the mirth found in a group of teenage boys telling dirty-jokes in an eighth-grade sex-Ed class.
“Right,” I offered. “If you’re going to be an artist, we’ll have to harness that Id of yours.”
“I’m not into that kinky stuff, you fag.” He scoffed. “What’s an Id anyhow?”
“You really want to know?” I asked.
“Hang on.” He said and reached within his T-shirt from which he withdrew a vial of small purple pills. He uncapped them and poured a few down his snout, chomping on them covetously. Straining his fubsy torso around in his seat, he reached down and pressed the call button for the flight attendant. The distinctive ping resounded through the cabin, and within thirty seconds a steward appeared.
“Pardon e moi, gasson, Might you have any libations with which to sate this thirsty traveler? I’m rather parched, you know, and require salvation from these claustrophobic confines?” NP asked of the steward who stood there staring at him in an incredulous daze.
“Would you like a cocktail, mon fraire? He asked of me with the flourish of an American trying to sound worldly.
“No thanks,” I said.
“Oh, for Christ sake! Have you converted to Islam or something?”
“No, it’s Buddhist Lent.” I explained. It was as good a reason as any to avoid drinking with this pig.
“Have it your way,” he said and turned to the steward who waited patiently. “Fine then, I’ll have a Diet Coke, Mohammed; and by the by, I’ve ordered the Kosher meal.” He whispered conspiratorially. “Can I get that ahead of time, please? I’m starving. Thank you. Now run along, you silly knave.” He said with a wink and a tap on the steward’s rear.
The steward’s eyes grew large as he checked an inner surge of revulsion and disappeared into the galley beside us. Muffled swearing in a foreign tongue could be heard from behind the galley’s curtain and more than a few cupboard doors were opened and slammed shut.
“Now, what were we talking about?” he returned to me—his accent mysteriously having vanished.
“Your inability to distinguish between fantasy and reality; to temper your reflexive impulses; to …”
“Ah, here we are!” NP interrupted.
The steward arrived with a Diet Coke and a tray of savory-smelling, foil-wrapped airplane food which he set before NP on the wobbly little table that now rested on the protruding ball of his rotund paunch.
From within his T-shirt, NP drew a bag of McDonald’s food and placed it on top of the food on the tray before him. Casually, he arranged the plastic dinnerware to set his place, and tucked the paper napkin into the collar of his T-shirt. Then, from the bag came a BigMac, a super-sized order of French fries, and a half-melted McFlurry.
“Mmm, doesn’t this look dee-lish!” he said with a throaty relish, unwrapping the Big Mac with a well-practiced technique. “Right, get on with it,
“Well, the Id is your pleasure principle, mainly.” I explained. “Yours is completely unchecked. You’re pre-pubescent with barely a trace of ego to assist your cognitive abilities to discern the aspects of your environment. We need to coax your Id to sublimate your creative juices through the filter of your maturing ego and into something beautiful.”
“Keep your hands where I can see ‘em, you Catholic buggering priest!” He shrieked and grabbed a plastic knife, aiming it threateningly at my crotch.
The steward was drawn to the ruckus of our little row; and NP swung into his alternate persona.
“Oh cabin boy, may I borrow a plume? He asked again with the exaggerated flair, batting his eyelids.
The steward looked at him coolly, so I used a writing motion with my hand and mouthed the word, pen, nodding at the seat beside me to which he produced a Malaysian Airlines ball-point from within the suit coat of his flight uniform. He gave hesitant sneer to NP, flicked the pen into the seat, and spun on his heels, disappearing into the galley once again.
NP snatched up the pen, covertly canting his rear to one side and slipped the pen betwixt his butt-cheeks. “The old scented pen trick. I learned this from a school teacher once.” He snickered. “This’ll teach him not to be so caustic.”
He peeled the bun off the burger, and using a plastic fork, he meticulously—if not analy—plucked off anything resembling a vegetable. He then gingerly closed the sandwich and proceeded to cram nearly half of it down his snout in a single bite.
“Jesus, go easy on that.” I said in disgust.
“Are you talking to me or to your lord and savior, you blaspheming infidel?” He demanded through his mouthful of half chewed meat, bun, and cheese.
“I’m talking to the burger-scarfing pig in the burkha.” I said in no uncertain terms.
“Look, Mc. a-hole, my McFlurry dot com is melting; I’m working on a time constraint here. You know, I’m gonna sue these fuckers.” He said, as he washed down the remaining bite of his Big Mac with the Diet Coke. You know, they’ve made a pig of me!” He fumed with a tinge of sadness in his voice.
“I think you had a head start.” I offered.
“I’ll have you know that below this fubsy exterior, I’m ripped—abs of steel, my man!” He said indignantly poking his midriff.
“Hmmm…” I added.
“You see this crap,” he said waving his fries in the air. “Gotta be GMO.” NP was becoming incensed and sternly dug into his McFlurry for a respite from his diatribe.
“I think you’re GMO, but traceability is what you need to build a case.”
“Trace this,” he said and gave me the finger. “And though you love to hear the sound of your voice, please try not to talk up a storm while I’m napping. You know what’s really annoying? You! That’s who, Mr. Pedantic.” NP pushed up the armrest on the seat next to him and stretched out across the two seat cushions. Grabbing two pillows, he covered his face and within moments he was emitting gurgling sounds of slumber.
NP, I thought. How he takes things for granted! What will he do when his house of sticks comes down around him? Will he fight or flee? He’ll do alright in time, I hoped. My mind then drifted elsewhere—to my new job; and how it seemed too good to be true. It’s strangely like that John Grisham novel, The Firm, where every thing is going along fine until one day, you open the wrong door and the Quaker Oatmeal guy is standing there holding a gun on you. I’d kick ‘em in the cocoons, I mused.
Without constant distraction from NP, I was able to have some
time to myself to sort out these thoughts and finally get back to my reading. The Falcon of Siam told of a fanciful
world of seduction and intrigue based in the time of when the ancient city of
Nearly three hours had passed when I felt the plane begin to go into its descent. The cabin crew came to life and began preparing for landing, while a video began to play covering airport orientation, SARS health screening, and immigration procedures. Naughty began to stir.
An announcement came over the planes PA system: “This is a special announcement,” it
began. “Trafficking of illicit narcotics
and controlled substances in
At hearing this, NP’s body went rigid. His face bloomed to a florid crimson and he launched from his seat making a b-line for the lavatory, slamming the door shut behind him.
The steward, observing NP’s flash and dash made his way
towards the lavatory and knocked, “Please take your seat sir. The plane is landing.” He said with the firm
commanding tone adopted by all flight personnel since the September 11th
attack in
The lavatory door was flung open and NP’s voice boomed from Economy to First Class, “Can’t a pig take a crap in peace around here?” The sucking sound of a high-altitude flush punctuated his consternation. The steward shrunk back from the open door and adopted a cat-like fighting stance, seemingly in fear for his safety. NP emerged from the restroom and stood at a pig’s height looking up at the steward who immediately relaxed. In his head-scarf, NP nearly looked innocent but for the phantasmagorical rage upon his beet red face. “Oh it’s you. Here’s your pen back!” He said and daintily minced back to his seat his shirt flowing around him as he swished side to side, holding his arms outstretched and making airplane noises.
“What’d you do, flush your Xanex?” I asked.
“Yup. Ain’t no-one gonna fry this pig.” He boasted.
“Brilliant,” I sighed. “Why’s your face so red?”
“Oh it’s this rosatia. It turns my snout red.” NP groaned as he tried to buckle his seatbelt.
“Maybe you have SARS.” I offered.
SARS shmars, I had a nasty case of Japanese encephalitis a couple months back. It itched like a bitch. God damn it! This seat belt seems tighter than before.”
“Have you tried not being such a pig?”
“Oh, fuck you.”
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