The Christmas Pig: A Very Kinky Christmas Read Online Free PDF

conversation, now came out from around the bar. He took off his apron, walked over to the table, and craned his neck to see the masterpiece in question.
    “Where are the ducks?” repeated the White Knight.
    “They were here, all right, your lordship,” said the barman. “Looked just like this picture. Hundreds of ’em. Then the hunters came and killed most of ’em and the rest never came back. Nary a one.”
    “Can’t blame ’em,” said the Black Knight. “When was this bloody massacre when the hunters killed the ducks?”
    “Ten years ago, your worship.”
    “Now, how, in the sacred name of the Lord,” said the Gray Knight, “did this young lad know about the ducks?”
    “Benjamin appears to know the past quite well,” said Uncle Floyd. “He also seems to be spot-on when it comes to relating to the future. His only problem is dealing with the present.”
    “Join the club,” said the Black Knight.
    Uncle Floyd stared thoughtfully into his pint. He really didn’t know how the boy so accurately portrayed the future and the past. He hadn’t a clue as to the source of his wondrous artistic talents. Possibly, only the lad himself knew the answer.
    If Benjamin knew, however, he wasn’t talking.

Chapter Eight
The Man on the Bridge
    T HE LITTLE CARAVAN was halfway through the second day of travel when the highwaymen attacked seemingly out of nowhere. Two of them swept in from the left side of the nearby hedgerow and two more from the back right flank. By the time the White Knight turned around, the Gray Knight had been knocked off his horse and was lying on the ground. One of the highwaymen tried to grab the reins of the horses carrying Uncle Floyd and Benjamin but the White Knight came charging toward him with sword drawn. The White Knight and the highwayman were soon taking broad swipes at each other’s heads with gleaming swords as Uncle Floyd endeavored as best he could to protect the young boy from an errant swing of the steel blades.
    Throughout this ordeal, Benjamin expressed almost no emotion. This was partly because of the fact that Benjamin always expressed almost no emotion. It was possible that Benjamin had already witnessed the outcome of this event the day before when he’d seen the White Knight with blood on his hands and Jesus with the ducks.
    Suddenly, the sounds of muskets being fired could be heard at close range. The Black Knight shot one of the intruders and the man fell from his horse. Another highwayman pulled out his pistol and took aim at the White Knight, who was still locked in battle with the sword-flailing assailant. The shot went wide, hitting the side of the cart, further spooking the horses and causing Benjamin to place his hands over his ears. The child did not perform this action in a hurried or traumatized fashion but rather in a calm, almost robotic manner. The sound of the pistols, evidently, was irritating his ears. This was, indeed, a distraction because, in the midst of the carnage, the boy had begun to start sketching again. He was drawing the sword fight that was occurring right before his eyes and putting his hands to his ears had caused him to miss the White Knight shoving his sword clear through the gut of his erstwhile opponent. Upon witnessing this, the lad, quite naturally, began sketching again.
    These behaviors did not indicate that the young artist was cold or uncaring. It meant merely that he did not express what emotions he felt in a manner that others could see or understand. Some might interpret his attitude as fatalistic to the extreme but this would not necessarily be correct either. A fatalistic attitude would be a rather redundant armament to one who already knew the outcome of any given event. Not that Benjamin could totally predict the future with any more clarity than anyone else. He simply had dreams. He sometimes saw, in waking hours, pictures in his head. He was no different, he felt, from Don Quixote or Joan of Arc, both of whom he’d read