u/SaintDroxidious

The one thing no one wants to talk about, is how good Long Pig actually tastes. 

It’s sweet, and when cooked just right, is like the best pork belly you’ve ever had. 

I didn’t want to eat it, well, not at first. 

Okay maybe a little. 

Biting wind and a lack of food will do that to you. Granted I took to it a little faster than everyone else, but hey, I’m a survivor what can I say.

Joel was first. I mean he was my first entree of the alps but also the first in the group to not make it. He just didn’t wake up one day. *Lucky me*. 

That’s what I thought. Here I was with pain in my stomach and sunken cheeks, and an option had just been dropped into my lap. I mean that literally. He fell at some point during the night while sleeping next to me. Actually landed in my lap. 

It didn't take long to put two and two together. *I’m hungry*. He’s not. 

The others resisted at first but I am a good chef. The smell of pork filled the fuselage. They caved pretty quick. 

One by one others started to fall out. I treated them all with respect by cooking them just right. The cold kept the meat in perfect condition as I rationed it out. 

When everyone seemed to be on the up and up, with strength to spare, I gave them a little push. 

I wanted to get out of here too, but it’s hard to quit a good thing. I had so many other things to try, and, the less people, the more cuts I could experiment with and eat myself. 

The last couple of flight mates started to get wise, *I think,* to me helping a few of the others slip away to sleep, but when you're the chef you get a little leniency. 

Too bad for them, I wasn’t just a good cook. I was smart too. I knew the right way to hit that mountain to not kill everyone on board. I’d been a pilot for years. 

I had a craving and I’m not ashamed to admit, I also had poor impulse control. Funny they never thought I had *planned it.*

Once I picked the last meat off of Robby, I packed up, and hid evidence of the crash site. Not perfectly, just enough to make it hard to find. 

I hiked for a while, I had a full stomach after all. I had been eating good. I pulled out the satellite phone I had hidden away and made the call. No one ever did find the plane. Of course I didn’t admit to eating anyone but I think the rescue team could tell I looked a little too good for how long I had been out here. 

It was an eye opening experience. I really learned my passion on that trip. Matter of fact, I’m opening up a restaurant soon. Advertising it as *locally sourced meat.* 

The one thing no one wants to talk about, is how good Long Pig actually tastes. 

It’s sweet, and when cooked just right, is like the best pork belly you’ve ever had. 

I didn’t want to eat it, well, not at first. 

Okay maybe a little. 

Biting wind and a lack of food will do that to you. Granted I took to it a little faster than everyone else, but hey, I’m a survivor what can I say.

Joel was first. I mean he was my first entree of the alps but also the first in the group to not make it. He just didn’t wake up one day. Lucky me. 

That’s what I thought. Here I was with pain in my stomach and sunken cheeks, and an option had just been dropped into my lap. I mean that literally. He fell at some point during the night while sleeping next to me. Actually landed in my lap. 

It didn't take long to put two and two together. I’m hungry. He’s not. 

The others resisted at first but I am a good chef. The smell of pork filled the fuselage. They caved pretty quick. 

One by one others started to fall out. I treated them all with respect by cooking them just right. The cold kept the meat in perfect condition as I rationed it out. 

When everyone seemed to be on the up and up, with strength to spare, I gave them a little push. 

I wanted to get out of here too, but it’s hard to quit a good thing. I had so many other things to try, and, the less people, the more cuts I could experiment with and eat myself. 

The last couple of flight mates started to get wise, I think, to me helping a few of the others slip away to sleep, but when you're the chef you get a little leniency. 

Too bad for them, I wasn’t just a good cook. I was smart too. I knew the right way to hit that mountain to not kill everyone on board. I’d been a pilot for years. 

I had a craving and I’m not ashamed to admit, I also had poor impulse control. Funny they never thought I had planned it.

Once I picked the last meat off of Robby, I packed up, and hid evidence of the crash site. Not perfectly, just enough to make it hard to find. 

I hiked for a while, I had a full stomach after all. I had been eating good. I pulled out the satellite phone I had hidden away and made the call. No one ever did find the plane. Of course I didn’t admit to eating anyone but I think the rescue team could tell I looked a little too good for how long I had been out here. 

It was an eye opening experience. I really learned my passion on that trip. Matter of fact, I’m opening up a restaurant soon. Advertising it as locally sourced meat. 

I did run as instructed. Not away mind you, but to the town itself. I ran as fast as these limbs that have seen better days could take me. I ran through the forest, through the trees, up the hills, across the creeks, around the bends, and all the way to the little village I was currently calling home. When I arrived, however, it was not as I had left it. The work of the Devil had already been set upon these normal folk. 

Fire raged and living corpses not yet aware of their death stumbled to and fro. A man, not more than 30, clung to his neck, his viscera spreading between his fingers. He gargled his final words at me before the flame of life left him. I could not fathom what I was seeing. A child approached, blonde hair and shabby clothes. It was not until I saw the flowers in her hand that I understood I knew her. Her other arm, torn from its place yet hanging by a few sinewy strands, dragged behind her. She offered them to me. Her freckles shone marvelously in the light of the fires, but her eyes lacked shine. She took but four paces before collapsing at my feet, sending the flowers to my boot tip, and moving no more. I have seen wickedness in man far beyond what any sane man could muster comprehension for, but this was beyond even that.

 A woman, screaming, fell from a second story of a modest home, well adjourned garden, windows of fine oak and a door to match, an abode with much care given to it over the years. Fire engulfed the bottom floor, bringing a sick light to the adjournments given to it. All the hard work of making a house a home seen in the light of the deep burning chasm. She fell, and screamed, if a short while, my guess would be seconds but they felt like years. Landing onto a wrought iron fence that I have no doubt was commissioned of the local smithy as either a surprise to her husband or at the behest of him thereof. The wrought iron protrudes in a peculiar way, from the base of the neck to the ear. The angle was odd and fatal. Her eyes shone with years of experience before taking on the dull pallor of the child before.  

The leader of the church could be seen by shadows at first, then form. Dancing among the flames that now encircled the parish. Unclothed, and unwashed, he gyrated with unusual movements. I knew not if this was something brought on by grief and sorrow, or some sick depravity that lurked within the whole while. 

While my mind tried to comprehend the scene he had painted, he stopped. His eyes frantically moving about before settling in a downward look. Then his head seemed to slope forward almost in a hunch. It landed with a sickening plod upon the ground where he stood, his body soon following the path with the same effect.

 Behind him stood a monster. A flaming rider, clad in black metal and riding upon a horse of enormous stature. He was bereft of a head.

"And I looked, and behold a pale horse: and his name that sat on him was Death, and Hell followed with him." 

 He held, from what I could make out, such an item in his hand, and a flaming sword in the other. A veritable horse of the apocalypse. As the man of faith hit the ground, his horse reared up. Those in his immediate vicinity seemed to commit acts of self harm and suicide. One started to continuously thrust his head upon the threshold of a door, until the parts that made up his likeness were splayed, hanging, and torn apart.

 Another, who seemed to be running from a burning home, thought better, grabbed his children, and threw them back into the house of brimstone, before walking in himself, and shutting the door behind him. 

Madness licked at every part of my psyche and threatened to overtake my soul itself by just gazing upon him. 

Fire and judgement, for what I did not know, came to this town. It weighed the souls of everyone within and found them wanting. 

The rider crept down from his horse in movements too stiff and unnatural. Where he walked, the ground died by each step. Where the air around touched and passed, carried with it some kind of malevolent energy that drove men to madness. 

He held his skull in his own hand, by small wisps of hair from what I could tell, and those flaming sockets seemed to lock onto me and burrow into my soul. 

The jaw unhinged and then a sound I could not shake like the cold of winter pierced through the air as it screamed and walked my way.