PIGGS - A Novel with Bonus Screenplay Read Online Free PDF

godawful, anything that popped in his head.   Jack didn't care to risk that.
    Sticking to the shadows near the side of the stage, he made his way up to the bar, past the only wall that wasn't full of baby pigs.   The bartender's name was Phylla.   Phylla was fully dressed, which was fine with the help, and the customers too.   Phylla had gotten out of stripping in l953.
    Jack crawled past her, past the worn slats that smelled of rotgut and beer.   Past rusty bobby pins, onions, olives, and ancient lemon peels.
    "Phylla," Jack said, "don't say a thing, don't even look down here."
    "Hi, Jack," Phylla said, "what you doin', hon?"
    "Thanks, Phylla.   I'm fine, how are you?"
    He speeded up his crawl, picked up a splinter in his knee.   Came to the end, saw the alley door.   Came up slow, did a little Groucho, stayed real close to the wall.   Came to the door.   Reached for the knob.   Cat Eye opened it, stood there staring at the floor.
    Newark, Round Seven.   1968.   Cat blinked, got another picture in his head.   Cat said, "Hey, Jack, whachoo doin' down there?"
    "Fine, how are y—"
    A hand came down and lifted Jack up, held him kicking in the air.   Jack didn't think, he was too scared for that.   He lashed out at Cat Eye, kicked him in the crotch.   Cat Eye dropped him, howled and went down.   Jack scrambled up and ran.   Tripped on a chair, picked it up and threw it back at Cat.   The chair hit Cat and Cat didn't care.
    Two doors ahead, the men's room first, storage past that.   For an instant, Cat was out of sight.   Jack tried the mens' room. Locked.   Some asshole in there doing coke, smoking pot.   Jack didn't hesitate.   He opened the door to the storage room and ducked inside.
    Pitch black.   He switched on the light, turned it off again.   They used to keep beer and whiskey in there, they didn't anymore.   Now they tossed in all kinds of shit, hoping someone would clean it out.
    Jack stumbled over buckets and mops, old beer signs and broken panes of glass.   In the back, tables without any legs were stacked on edge, enough old tables to start a new bar.   Jack went to his knees again, squeezed in behind them until he found the wall.
    Big, big mistake back there.   He knew the Cat would have beat him up bad if he hadn't fought back.   But Jack had kicked him hard, and Cat Eye would kill him for that.
    From the hall came a terrible sound.   Anger, fury, primal rage.   Cat unhappy as he beat on the walls, tore off the mens' room door.   Someone screamed, a scream not far from homicide.
    Jack didn't move.   Other sounds reached him through the door.   Sounds like plumbing, sounds like pipes.   Sounds like urinals ripped off the wall, toilets jerked off the floor.
    Then, a sound worse than that.   Nothing.   No sound at all.
    One...two...three... Jack counted to himself.
    Cat Eye got it figured out.   The door flew open.   Cat stepped inside.   Jack held his breath.   Cat felt around and found the light.   Crunched a lot of broken glass.   Broke a mop across his knee.   Picked up a bucket and tossed it at the wall.
    "Li'l sumbitch," Cat muttered to himself, "kill the li'l shit."
    Cat started on the tables.   Picked them up two at a time, started tossing them aside.   Jack's heart nearly stopped.   Nine, ten tables deep.   Three times seven, carry your eight. Cat Eye would kill him in forty seconds flat.
    "Cat, what the hell you think you doing, get out of there!"
    "Grape, that li'l shit, he back there somewheres, he couldn't be nowhere else."
    "There isn't nobody in there but you," Grape said. "You sorry bastard, you tore up a whole bathroom, Mr. Dupree's going to have a fit."
    "He's in there, Grape–"
    "Get out of there."
    "Damn, Grape–"
    "Get out of there, Cat, and clean this fucking mess up!"
    The lights went out.   The door slammed shut.   Jack didn't move.   Jack was sure it was a trick.
    A minute passed or an hour and a half.   The music started up again,