Without a word we’d decided to torture the pig.

One small hand began to knock against the hard, pink shell, and others found the sound amusing. One, two, three… a dozen, fists struck the carapace, quickly synchronizing in a rough four-four beat.

The pig swung back and forth, kicked and tried to escape; and we took delight in its suffering. It stumbled and fell; its face impacted the ground, and drove its snout back into its skull.

Thus we ended our game. Not out of guilt for the harm or sympathy for our victim, but because we had bored of it.

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