"Every fat pig goes to driftwood ranch, and not a single one ever leaves." This is the story that every piglet is told, and most of those piglets become plump nonetheless.

Walker didn't consider himself a cruel man, just... Business oriented, and efficient. The fact of the matter was that people the country over, including himself, wanted to consume food such as bacon, ham, sausage, and other pork. He made promises, wrote contracts, and always, always delivered on time. Killing pigs, like it or not, was a profession, and Walker was good at his job.

As all creatures are well aware however, there is always one that gets away, no matter how skilled the captor. This particular pig's name was Humphrey, and he was likely the smartest, though most definitely the roundest boar on the ranch. There had been a few times when Walker had tried to capitalize on his prized pig, and these had been the only times he had ever failed in his efforts of swine catching.

Walker would come up behind with his usual approach of a sudden snatch at the torso, and Humphrey, being a smarter catch than most, would see Walker coming and kick him with his hind legs. The boar would then sprint away, to the greatest extent that one can sprint with their belly nearly touching the floor, out of its personal pen, closing the door on the way out, and leaving Walker temporarily trapped. After this, Walker would find his keys, go back inside, and forget about the hassle for the time being, meanwhile Humphrey would triumphantly swagger to the trough to get his double serving without a lick of consequence.

The other pigs had secretly started to write tabloids about the epic battles going on in the yard, writing about the exceptional exploits of Humphrey the hero, fighting against the wretched wrangler known as wicked Walker. The pigs, for obvious reasons, couldn't be expected to write unbiased accounts of what happened, though the pictures were of excellent detail and appropriate flair.

Despite all of this, there was one day, as there always is, when a shipment was due and and the rancher snapped. Walker wasn't going to miss an order after seven years of perfect service just because of one lousy hog. He walked out to the enclosures, his sleeves rolled up and his eyes bloodshot, a bottle of scotch in his left hand and... And a cleaver in his right hand. "HUMPHREY!!" Yelled the drunken man "COME OUT WHERE I CAN SEE YOU, YOU LOUSY PIG!! DADDY NEEDS A VERY SMART PORKCHOP!!"

What was Humphrey going to do now? Would he escape once again from the clutches of the mad rancher?

The ranch was quiet, devoid of its regular hustle and bustle: no snorting, no shuffling, no pen scratching as pig tabloids were drafted behind the hay bales. Every pig held their breath in the presence of Walker’s boots crunching on gravel and the slosh of cheap scotch in his bottle. Humphrey peeked out from behind a feed barrel.

He had been in tight spots before, but this was different.

His first thought had been to hide. Impossible, he admonished himself. Walker was unpredictable even when sober, drunk, he was practically a tornado with a blade.

His second was to fight, but then he looked at his trotters and his rotund belly. Not happening.

So Humphrey only had one option left: run.

Humphrey scanned the yard. The other pigs were huddled in their pens, eyes wide, watching their hero. A few held up crude cardboard signs like “RUN HUMPHREY RUN” and “DOWN WITH WALKER”. Then Humphrey saw it: the feed silo, standing tall above the farm like a hollow metal sentinel. It was big, and far, and crucially, in possession of a nice, tall ladder. Walker always forgot he couldn’t climb while drunk.

Humphrey took a deep breath, puffed out his chest (which didn’t help much, since it was already puffed permanently), and stepped into the open.

Walker spun around. “THERE YOU ARE, YOU SLIPPERY LITTLE HAM HOCK!”

Humphrey squealed and waddled toward the silo as fast as his belly allowed. Walker roared and charged after him, cleaver raised. Humphrey reached the silo, darted behind it, and kicked the ladder with all his might. It clattered loudly, and Walker, hearing the noise, assumed Humphrey had climbed it.

“YOU THINK YOU CAN HIDE UP THERE?!” he bellowed, grabbing the rungs.

He made it three steps up before gravity and alcohol teamed up against him. Walker slipped, flailed, and fell backward into a trough with a spectacular splash. Humphrey peeked around the silo just in time to see Walker was sputtering, soaked, and unconscious, snoring with his face half‑submerged in pig slop.

The pigs erupted into cheers, and a crude rendition of a song entitled 'The Fall of Wicked Walker'. Humphrey trotted forward, nudged the cleaver far out of reach, and then, because he was a benevolent hero, as the song said, rolled Walker onto his side so he wouldn’t drown in the muck.

Then he strutted to the trough for his well‑earned triple serving.