Excerpt from 30-50 Feral Hogs: The Devil’s Piglets

Based on the 30-50 hogs insanity spreading around the internet, and a discussion of authors, I have a story suddenly about magically charged Norse feral hogs hunting down and eating white supremacists and neo nazis. I think im actually going to put this one up as a novelty book on Amazon, I even have a cover. Blurb and excerpt below. Content / Trigger warning, contains depictions of racism, white supremacist dogma, and animal cruelty.

(I feel the need to add, yes, the main character is a villain. He’s not “racist” but he certainly falls into the large category of white people who aren’t actively racist, but sure as hell turn a blind eye to it. This is a Shakespearean Tragedy. And we know how those end. )

James Hoagland had it all. Loving marriage, great kids, a good house in rural Texas with a lucrative job selling firearms. He knew his neighbors could be, well, a bit racist, but he didn’t think they were terrorists. Until he found himself pulled into a dark ceremony, and soon, fighting for his life, against 30 – 50 Feral Hogs.


I looked at the faces around me, some smiling in amusement, some looking away in chagrin.  The fabric between my fingers felt greasy, and my stomach dropped as I realized I was far deeper into this than I ever wanted to be. I dropped the hood on the ground, and resisted the urge to stomp on it. “Look, I’m no liberal, you all know that.”  I stopped a moment as they all nodded in agreement, adding small words of encouragement.

“Preach brother.”  “Amen.” “No libtards in this town!”

It felt like they were trying to turn it into a testimonial or counseling meeting.  My gorge rose. “But THIS sure as hell ain’t me.  See here, I know you guys grew up with these attitudes, but ‘cleansing’, ‘swine’ ? You’re talking about peo…”

My voice trailed off as I realized what was making the squealing noises.  I looked over at several stalls along the side of the barn, holding feral hogs that were tied down, barely moving.  They appeared to be asleep.  Another lay on the ground, held down by ropes and stakes, like Gulliver meeting the Lilliputians. His eyes were closed as his head tossed gently against the rope.  One tusk was broken off halfway, the other stained red. Its mottled hide was covered with shapes in bright glowing paint, and several fresh, raw brand marks.  …  I recognized one of the brands as a Norse symbol that Andy had mentioned, the Valknut. I knew that Bobby John and Joey Sean, his brother, standing next to him, both also had it tattooed on their biceps.

“Andy.”  My voice was low, as I fought to keep the fear from making it shake. “What in the name of our everloving Lord is going on here?”

The man in the red trimmed hood stepped forward.  The rest of him was clothed in a striped gray suit.  Shiny black shoes stood against the grimy floor of the barn.  His voice was firm, but soft.  Soft like the purr of a great cat before it strikes. Deep like thunder. Fancy, in a way that felt like someone trying to sound fancy, and not quite making it. I didn’t recognize him, by body or voice.

“James.  Andrew has told us much about you.  I am Brother Wayland.  I understand you are not a Brother, and with your words of a moment ago, I know your mind too stained with the filth that has rotted our nation to ever become one. At least, not without a lot of work to teach you the True Way.”

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