The Man arrived seven minutes early to work.

As he often did.

This was not diligence. Diligence had gone extinct some years ago, crowded out by consultants, shareholders, hereditary management, and several invasive species.

If he was not early, the nearly defunct transit system in The City would ensure he was late.

The Man entered through the revolving doors into the womb of the building. Above him, forty-four floors of polished glass and synthstone rose into the brown, haze-filled morning like some perverse monument erected in the name of disappointment.

A rented smile from the receptionist.
A practiced nod from The Man.
A shared routine.

The elevator arrived carrying the scent of real perfume and anxiety, mixing with the ever-present pungency of government-approved pork dairy wafting from commuters' lattes.

Inside the cramped car, The Man noticed a woman weeping.

One of the owner's daughters.

Or nieces.

Or cousins.

The distinction was largely academic.

The upper floors of the company tree had become so entangled with family relations that genealogists required flowcharts and legal counsel to parse it.

She appeared fit to burst, no doubt preparing to serenade the office with the latest installment of the family soap opera. A cacophony of:

"They didn't even know who I was."
And:
"Daddy says..."

The tiny metal tomb sealed shut and began its ascent.

The elevator rattled.

It groaned.

Something banged somewhere deep within the walls as its occupants silently considered taking the stairs for the remainder of the day.

"Twentieth floor," the automated voice announced through a speaker that sounded as though it had survived several small wars.

The doors opened halfway.

Stopped.

Then, after a reluctant shove from The Man, surrendered completely.

The elevator released him from the increasingly warm, pork-scented chamber.

The bullpen beyond was already alive.

Men laughed.
Women gathered in small circles of prayer and chanting.
Someone was crying in a conference room.
Someone else was shouting about market forecasts.

The sounds blended into a single corporate hum.

Then came a scream.

The Owner's Daughter fumbled for her phone, clutching it to her face as though attempting to strangle it.

"HE'S WHAT?"

The entire floor paused.

The woman screamed again.

The call disconnected.

The elevator dinged.

She tore through the office like a missile launched by divine hatred.

The Man continued to Accounting.

Accounting occupied a small office near the rear of the floor.

By noon, rumors spread through the building like mold.

The owner's son was sleeping with the owner's daughter.

Not that daughter.

The other daughter.

The married one.

Simultaneously, the younger son had apparently disappeared into a fertility cult operating out of a luxury golf resort.

Meanwhile, The Company's largest trading partner was declaring bankruptcy.

Again.

At some point The Man ate lunch.

By the end of the day, he had forgotten what it had been.

This was understandable.

It had been a pork substitute tuna melt.

By three o'clock, Human Resources had barricaded itself within its offices and refused calls from Accounting, Legal, Marketing, and eventually one another.

By four-thirty, Legal had rounded up half the floor for mandatory "Mini-Team Building Evaluation Camps" intended to discuss appropriate workplace communication and inform employees that pensions had been reduced as the stock price entered a condition medical professionals would describe as critical.

The workday officially ended at five.

By then, the remainder of The Owner's family and relations departed in a loose procession through the building.

A daily pageant displaying the apex of the rot consuming their collective world.

The Man did not leave.

He could not leave.

Not physically.

Physically, he was entirely capable of standing up and walking out the door.

The Company would even encourage this behavior.

Officially.

Unofficially, however, his supervisor would note that The Man had failed to remain until the final legally permissible minute.

This observation would be entered into a performance review.

The performance review would influence compensation.

Compensation would influence survival.

And so The Man remained.

He still had work to finish.

And no family waiting for him at home.

By the time The Man began the journey home it was roughly 11 p.m.

Outside, the overcast sky blanketed The City like a bruise. Clouds of brownish yellow played host to a troupe of purples and reds and flashes of holoscreens near and far.

The screech of the train overhead meant The Man would more than likely have to walk. If it was the 10:35 train, it was running late. If it was the 11:20 train, it was running early again. Either way, it was the last train of the evening.

The Man did not feel the need to discover which train it was.

The City slowly encroached on the over-manicured and empty car parks of the business sector in which The Man worked.

Damp corrugated walls of market stalls and the flickering neon of cafes choked the streets around The Man as he made his way home.

The streets acted like a dividing wall between this district and the ones next to it. The City was laid out on a rough grid, massive squares of "mixed use" mostly pedestrian plazas interlaced with above and below ground rail tracks. The street, an eight-lane thoroughfare, resembled more of a living river raised about six feet high, with ten-foot-high, two-foot-thick newcrete dividing walls. The rare footbridges across were places The Man only heard about in news broadcasts. Above the streets was about the only truly open batch of sky to be found in The City, a necessity to keep the air pollution from choking a three-mile radius around them of all life.

As The Man made his way through the slick streets and trash piles, his senses were assaulted with the bouquet of all forms of pork and pork products.

The Man remembered when this plaza was at least slightly less grease coated.

When The Man was young.

Now, The New Initiative had seen just about every industry coerced into using as much porcine-based material as it could in an effort to help reduce the strains put on the TPEI.

The Government's war on boar, pigs, hogs, and swine of all kinds.

The campaign had entered something like its twelfth year.

Officially it was known as the Total Porcine Extermination Initiative.

The public preferred "The Pig War."

Wild populations continued to swell despite every poison, bounty, drone strike, and televised declaration of victory.

Entire forests had become inaccessible.

Farms disappeared beneath sounders numbering in the hundreds.

Occasionally thousands, allegedly.

The New Initiative shifted to adaptation.

If the pigs could not be eliminated, they could at least become economically useful.

Milk.
Leather.
Gelatin.
Cooking oils.
Industrial lubricants.
Medical grafts.
Even insulation.

The average citizen consumed enough pig in a year to have qualified as a medium-sized boar.

The smell lingered over everything.

Grease seeped into brickwork.

Pork dairy frothed atop expensive coffee.

Children grew up believing bacon had always been sweet.

The New Initiative was widely regarded as a success.

Success, in fairness, had become increasingly flexible as a concept.

The Man remembered when this plaza had smelled of bread.

Ahead, a delivery truck rolled past bearing the familiar slogan:

EVERY PART HAS A PURPOSE.

The side of the trailer displayed a smiling cartoon pig with all too human features giving a thumbs-up.

The delivery truck disappeared into the evening traffic.

The Man watched it go.

Then continued walking.

He had intended to go straight home.

He often intended to go straight home.

Nearing home, The Man found himself standing outside a local pub tucked beneath the elevated rail and squeezed into an alley too narrow for sunlight.

The Man lit a cigarette.

Sirens wailed somewhere in the distance.

A commercial played from a nearby street kiosk. A smiling family advertised a pharmaceutical product capable of treating symptoms to some vague ailment.

The family possessed remarkably symmetrical teeth.

Nearby, automatic gunfire briefly interrupted the broadcast.

The advertisement paused.

Then resumed once it was reasonably certain it would no longer be drowned out.

Through the narrow strip of sky visible between overcrowded buildings, a drone dragged something across the clouds.

The Man finished his cigarette.

Home would still be there in an hour.

Probably.

The drinks were cheap.

The lighting was merciful.

The Man stepped inside.

Three glasses later, the edges of the world softened.
Four glasses later, the world improved considerably.
Five glasses later and it was either one more and risk passing out in the street, or finish the trek home.

The bartender announced closing time.

That settled it.

The Man paid his tab and cut around back to piss in some darkened corner.

The alley behind the pub was narrow, dark, and wet. Rainwater gathered in potholes. Garbage bags slumped against brick walls like exhausted pilgrims.

Something moved in the darkness.

The Man paused.

His bladder protested.

There were many things in The City that moved in dark alleys.

Most were best left alone.

The thing moved again.

A soft, wet sound drifted from somewhere beyond the garbage bags.

The sort of sound normally associated with injury, childbirth, or particularly aggressive dining.

The Man frowned.

An animal squeal followed.

Then another.

The alley smelled of rot, urine, and blood.

This was not particularly out of place, but there was something else foul in the air.

A security light buzzed overhead.

For a moment the alley illuminated itself.

A sow lay between the dumpsters.

Massive.

Mud-stained, and breathing hard.

The Man stared.

The sow stared back.

The animal shifted as if getting ready to attempt standing.

The Man sighed.

Of course.

A pig giving birth behind a bar.

Why not?

The City had spent years finding new and inventive ways to disappoint him.

Then came the cry.

Thin.

Sharp.

Not the way a sow cries, or even a piglet.

The sow strained again.

Something pale emerged.

His pickled brain struggled to assemble what his eyes were showing him.

He saw the hand.

Five fingers.

Human fingers.

Clawing weakly at the air.