Raised by a fairly normal family in a fairly normal city in a fairly normal province, nobody expected Allen to be more than just a normal guy who would do normal things. That was… until the baconing…
It was a fairly normal night in a fairly normal January when the knock came at the door. Allen was home alone that night, as normal, and opened the door cautiously. There was a startled looking pig at the door wearing a tattered pinstripe suit. The pig pleaded with Allen, begging for sanctuary, as he was being chased by a pack of rabid football players who lost their ball. “Those fools,” he said, “don’t they realize that footballs aren’t made of pigskin anymore?”
Allen looked quizzically at the pig and asked “but, forgive me for saying this, but aren’t you bred to be slaughtered?”
“It’s true,” replied the pig, “but I’m a meat pig. My family line produces the finest bacon known to man. It would be the greatest honour to be smoked and cured like my father before me.”
It was at this point that they began to hear the droning chant of football players approaching. They were drawing nearer. Allen and the swine ran to the window and looked down the street, seeing the players go door to door – searching.
“Young man, you must smoke me,” cried the pig, “you must cure me in salt. I must fulfill my legacy!”
Allen nodded grimly. He took the pig to the bathroom and rolled him an enormous joint. It must have been twenty grams of weed in that cannon. They sat there in silence as they heard the din get louder outside, and Allen handed the joint and a toaster to the pig.
“Smoke yourself, my new friend. Smoke yourself and soak in salt water. When you hear me open the door, drop the toaster in the water. It will not be quick, it will not be pleasant, but we’ll make bacon of you yet.”
A tear in his eye, the pig reached out and touched Allen’s shoulder, “thank you, young man. Remember: Eat bacon as much as you can. My kind want nothing more than to be delicious crispy strips on your plate. Honour us in this way.”
Allen nodded and walked downstairs. The footballers came to the door about ten minutes later, and Allen told them that no pig was to be found there. As he said it, they heard a squeal and a sizzle and a pop as the electricity went out.
“What’s that?” asked the captain of the football team.
“Oh that?” Allen replied, “that’d be my supper. I’m having bacon. Goodnight to you.”
With that, he shut the door, went upstairs, and grimly dined.