camwyn:siryouarebeingmocked:gservator:2kittensinacup:sketchmagetch:lemondemon:nemfrog:“Each do
camwyn:siryouarebeingmocked:gservator:2kittensinacup:sketchmagetch:lemondemon:nemfrog:“Each dot represents 5,000 hogs.” World Geography. 1948. untapped infinite hog supply in the oceanEach state is lined with an impenetrable wall.of swine. We are trappedWe’ve lost canada and mexico to the hogs already*squealing intensifies*We cannot get out. The end comes soon. The ground shakes… We hear squeals, squealsin the deep. They are coming. The shadow moves in the dark. We cannot get out. They are coming.’“It’s just like pigs grunting,” he told me again. “Only much more awful. There are grunts, and squeals and pighowls, like you hear when their food is being brought to them at a pig farm. You know those large pig farms where they keep hundreds of pigs. All the grunts, squeals and howls blend into one brutal chaos of sound - only it isn’t a chaos. It all blends in a queer horrible way. I’ve heard it. A sort of swinish clamouring melody that grunts and roars and shrieks in chunks of grunting sounds, all tied together with squealings and shot through with pig howls. I’ve sometimes thought there was a definite beat in it; for every now and again there comes a gargantuan GRUNT, breaking through the million pig-voiced roaring - a stupendous GRUNT that comes in with a beat. Can you understand me? It seems to shake everything…. It’s like a spiritual earthquake. The howling, squealing, grunting, rolling clamour of swinish noise coming up out of that place, and then the monstrous GRUNT rising up through it all, an ever-recurring beat out of the depth - the voice of the swine-mother of monstrosity beating up from below through that chorus of mad swine-hunger…. It’s no use! I can’t explain it. No one ever could. It’s just terrible! And I’m afraid you’re saying to yourself that I’m in a bad way; that I want a change or a tonic; that I must buck up or I’ll land myself in a madhouse. If only you could understand ! Doctor Witton seemed to half understand, I thought; but I know he’s only sent me to you as a sort of last hope. He thinks I’m booked for the asylum. I could tell it.”William Hope Hodgson, “The Hog” -- source link
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