The piggie wagon rumbled up the dirt road, its rusted wheels clanking like a heavy heartbeat. Inside, the air was thick with the mingled scents of sweat, leather, and something sharp, metallic—anticipation. I was huddled in the corner, heart pounding in my chest, my pig mask damp against my skin as I clutched the edges of the wooden bench. This was it. After months of waiting, dreaming, and hoping, I had been chosen. Tonight, I would finally see Longpig and the Femcans perform live at the Human Farm. The wagon jolted to a stop in front of the towering iron gates, which creaked open to reveal the sprawling grounds of the Farm. The Human Farm was infamous—a place where dreams of glory clashed with brutal reality. As I stepped off the wagon with the other piggies, a mix of excitement and terror coursed through me. Some of us would end up on the dinner table tonight, while others would be sent to the pigpen to wait for another opportunity. And for a few unlucky ones, there might be one last trial—a game to prove our worth. We were herded into a vast courtyard lit by flickering torches. The Femcans stood on a raised platform, their dark silhouettes outlined against the fiery glow. Their presence was magnetic, terrifying, and awe-inspiring all at once. One of them, her sharp voice cutting through the murmur of the crowd, announced the rules: some piggies would be chosen immediately for tonight’s feast, while others would play a series of games to determine their fate. “Strip them,” one of the Femcans commanded with a wave of her hand. Our clothing was yanked off by rough hands, leaving us standing exposed except for our masks. The cool night air prickled against my bare skin, amplifying the vulnerability and humiliation. Yet, I felt a twisted pride—I was here, part of something extraordinary. Game 1: The Hunger Gauntlet The first game was announced with cruel delight. It was called the Hunger Gauntlet. Ten of us were selected and led to a narrow tunnel. The rules were simple: make it to the end of the gauntlet without collapsing. The catch? Along the way, we’d be pelted with everything from rotten food to jagged bones. Femcans lined the sides of the gauntlet, jeering and throwing their projectiles with ruthless precision. I was one of the unfortunate contestants. The moment the whistle blew, I bolted forward, dodging a spray of rancid meat that smacked the piggie beside me in the face. The ground was slick, and the air was thick with the smell of decay. Halfway through, a sharp bone struck my leg, but I limped onward, driven by the thought of earning my place. By the time I reached the end, bloodied and panting, only three of us remained standing. Game 2: The Piggie Riddle The next trial was psychological—a twisted game of wits. Five piggies were chosen to participate in the Piggie Riddle. We were placed in a circle with the lead Femcan standing at the center. She presented a series of riddles, each more macabre than the last. For every wrong answer, the offending piggie had to endure a lash from her whip. The riddles were brutal, designed to confuse and terrify. “I am what you hope to become yet fear to face. I am the end and the beginning. What am I?” I stammered out an answer—“Dinner?”—and was rewarded with a nod of approval. Another piggie, trembling, muttered something incoherent and received a sharp crack of the whip in response. By the end, only two of us had survived the mental ordeal, our nerves frayed but our spirits unbroken. Game 3: The Meat Grinder The final game was the most horrifying of all: The Meat Grinder. This one was simple yet barbaric. We were each handed a raw slab of meat and told to grind it down into fine paste using nothing but our teeth and hands. The Femcans circled us, shouting taunts and insults as we gnawed, tore, and ground the bloody flesh. The winner would be the piggie who finished first; the loser would be fed to the grinder—a fate none of us wanted to contemplate. The taste of raw meat filled my mouth as I worked furiously, blood dripping down my chin. My jaw ached, my hands trembled, but I refused to stop. The piggie next to me faltered, gagging on a particularly tough piece. I pushed myself harder, spurred on by the thought of seeing Longpig and the Femcans perform. Finally, I slammed my bloody pulp onto the table, panting and victorious. The Femcans smiled approvingly, while the unfortunate loser was dragged away, screaming. As the games concluded, I stood among the chosen few, my body battered but my spirit soaring. The Femcans led us to a grand hall where the concert would take place. The air buzzed with energy as the band took the stage, their instruments wailing with an unholy mix of metal and primal beats. My heart swelled with pride—I had made it. Whether I would be served for dinner tonight or sent to the pigpen to await my turn didn’t matter in this moment. I was here, part of something greater than myself. As the night wore on, I couldn’t help but glance at the pigpen, where the unchosen piggies huddled in disappointment. Some looked on with envy, others with quiet resignation. I knew their time would come—perhaps in the next game, the next show, the next feast. But for now, I was a star, if only for one night.

The two pigs stood trembling before the band, Longpig and the Femcans, their snouts glistening with nervous sweat. The dimly lit room buzzed with excitement as the band members lounged on a crimson couch, watching the scene unfold. Tonight was special—one pig would earn the honor of becoming the dinner pig, a privilege reserved for only the finest. The other? He’d return to the pigpen, humiliated, to face his brothers with the shame of defeat. “Let’s get this over with, piggies,” one of the Femcans purred, her voice dripping with amusement. “Rock, paper, scissors. Best of three. The winner gets the ultimate prize.” The pigs exchanged anxious glances, their hooves trembling as they prepared for the game that would decide their fate. They raised their stubby hands, locked eyes, and chanted in unison, “Rock, paper, scissors, shoot!” The first round was a draw—both threw rock. The room grew eerily silent, save for the distant hum of an amp warming up. On the second throw, one pig’s scissors sliced through the other’s paper. A small squeal of victory escaped the winning pig, but he stifled it quickly, sensing the weight of the final round. The loser glanced away, already dreading what seemed inevitable. “Rock, paper, scissors, shoot!” they chanted again, their voices overlapping with tension. The victorious pig threw rock, crushing the loser’s scissors. The room erupted in cheers from the band and jeers from the audience of staff and other piggies watching from the sidelines. The winner could hardly contain himself. He puffed out his chest, the adrenaline of triumph coursing through him. “I did it,” he muttered under his breath, his face lighting up with pride. The thought of being roasted and served to the band wasn’t a fear—it was an honor. He imagined the Femcans savoring every bite, their praise cementing his legacy as the perfect dinner pig. This was what every pig dreamed of, and now, it was his reality. The loser, however, stood frozen, staring at his trembling hooves. His lip quivered as he struggled to process the crushing defeat. He’d been so close to glory, so close to being chosen. Instead, he would return to the pigpen empty-hooved, his dream dashed in front of the band he idolized. As the winner was led away, glowing with pride, the loser trudged back to the pen. His brothers crowded around him, their hopeful expressions falling as he whispered, “I lost.” Silence spread through the group like a thick fog. A few patted him on the back, offering murmurs of consolation, but the weight of failure was suffocating. Back in the main room, the winner basked in the Femcans’ approval, standing tall as they prepared him for his final moments. For him, this was the pinnacle of existence, the ultimate fulfillment of his purpose. For the loser, the night was a reminder of how cruel fate could be—a dream deferred, a chance lost, a life resigned to waiting for another opportunity that might never come.

The room was dim, illuminated only by the flickering light of the fire that lay dormant beneath the massive iron grate. My knees pressed into the cold stone floor as I gazed up at Femcan Lana. Her voice was soft yet commanding, with a touch of amusement as she explained my fate. “You’ll crawl onto the grate,” she said, her tone almost soothing. “The fire will start slowly, building beneath you. And as the song ‘On Their Bones’ plays, the grate will begin to spin, cooking you alive until you’re perfect.” Her words sent a shiver down my spine, and I felt my heart race. Was this fear? Or was it something darker, something deeper? The very idea of being cooked alive should have been horrifying, but a strange thrill coursed through me. This was my destiny, after all. I was born for this. But still, my body trembled. “I—I don’t know if I can do this,” I stammered, my voice cracking. Femcan Lana knelt before me, her sharp eyes locking onto mine. “Oh, you can,” she said with a knowing smile. “This is what you were made for, little pig. There’s no turning back now.” Her words struck something within me. I was a piggyman, wasn’t I? This was my purpose, my moment to fulfill the role I’d been preparing for. Yet, the thought of the flames licking at my skin, of the slow agony as my body turned over the fire, made my stomach churn with terror. I looked at the grate, its metal bars gleaming ominously. My breaths came shallow and quick, my hands shaking as I crawled forward. The closer I got, the louder the pounding in my chest became. As my hands touched the cold metal, tears blurred my vision. “I don’t want to die,” I whispered, the words barely audible. Femcan Lana’s voice was firmer now, but not unkind. “You don’t have to want it,” she said. “It doesn’t change what’s coming. Embrace it. Be the feast you were meant to be.” I felt her hand on my shoulder, steadying me, pushing me forward. The mix of fear and excitement was overwhelming, a storm of emotions I couldn’t control. This was the ultimate surrender, the final act of devotion. As I crawled fully onto the grate, I heard the first notes of ‘On Their Bones’ begin to play. My body tensed, but I couldn’t stop now. The room seemed to blur around me, the faces of the audience melting into shadows as the music swelled. The fire beneath me roared to life, the heat rising in waves, kissing my skin with its promise of pain and inevitability. The grate shuddered and began to turn, slow at first, then faster, as the melody grew louder. A scream tore from my lips, not just from fear but from the strange, dark euphoria of knowing this was it. My destiny. My purpose. My end. As the flames climbed higher, licking at my flesh, I closed my eyes. The music drowned out everything—the crackle of the fire, the murmurs of the crowd, even my own cries. There was nothing left but the song and the heat, consuming me entirely. And in those final moments, I realized: I was finally becoming what I was meant to be.

The room was thick with anticipation. Rows of men, each wearing nothing but a crude number tied around their necks, shuffled anxiously. The lottery had become a tradition—a spectacle where fate decided who would ascend to the fire. Some wore their numbers with pride, their eyes gleaming with the perverse glory of being chosen. Others trembled, their resolve shaken. He was somewhere in between. When he first donned the collar, he’d been filled with excitement. The thought of being the centerpiece, the one roasted alive for the crowd, had ignited a strange thrill deep within him. He told himself it was an honor—a purpose, a destiny to fulfill. But as the ceremony began, that thrill gave way to a suffocating dread. The announcer stood tall, holding the bowl of numbers high. The room fell silent as the first was drawn. He watched as the piggyman beside him wept with relief when his number wasn’t called. Then came the second number. Not him again. His heart raced, pounding so hard it hurt. The third number. “Thirty-seven.” His number. A murmur rippled through the room, followed by the clapping of those who weren’t selected. They were safe for another day. He tried to stand tall, to let the honor of the moment carry him. But the weight of reality crushed him instead. As the attendants approached, his resolve crumbled. “Wait,” he stammered, his voice cracking. “I—I’ve changed my mind. I’m not ready!” They didn’t stop. Strong hands gripped his arms, leading him to the stage. The crowd cheered, their voices drowning out his protests.“Please! Someone else can take my place! I can—” He stopped himself, ashamed of the cowardice spilling from his lips. But wasn’t it natural to want to live? The scent of smoke and spices filled the air as the spit was prepared. He struggled against his captors, his mind racing. Memories of sunlight, laughter, and simple pleasures flashed before his eyes. He didn’t want this. Not now. Not anymore. “Please,” he begged, tears streaming down his face. “Don’t do this. I—I’ll be a better pig. Just let me live!” The announcer approached, their voice cold but kind. “Fate has chosen you. This is your moment. Accept it with grace.” “No,” he whispered. “Please.” But there was no escape. The crowd roared as he was bound, the spit sliding into place. Pain exploded through his body as the fire roared to life beneath him. His cries mingled with the cheers, the sound of his flesh sizzling the final punctuation to his fate. In his last moments, he thought about how he had wanted this once. The honor, the attention, the purpose. But now, all he wanted was one more chance to live. Fate, however, was not kind to pigs.

It started as an ordinary hike—me and my buddies, joking and trudging through the woods, our packs loaded with snacks and stories to share. We’d been hiking for hours when we heard it: loud, thumping music echoing through the trees. It wasn’t just any sound; it was electrifying, like a concert or a festival. Naturally, curiosity got the better of us, and we decided to check it out. That was the first mistake. We followed the sound until the trees began to thin, revealing a clearing. What we saw next froze us in our tracks. There was fire—huge roaring firepits—and a crowd of people, mostly women, dancing and laughing in a frenzy. But it wasn’t the music or the fire that held our attention; it was the meat. Human bodies—or what was left of them—were roasting on spits, their flesh glistening in the firelight. Some of the women were tearing into chunks of meat with their teeth, their faces smeared with grease and blood. It was horrifying, primal… yet somehow mesmerizing. We panicked. My heart was pounding, my legs trembling as we silently agreed to turn back. But when we spun around, we found them: women standing there, blocking our retreat. Their eyes gleamed in the firelight, and they grinned as if they’d been waiting for us. They were armed—not with guns, but with knives, ropes, and a confidence that made resistance seem pointless. Before we could think or act, they had us tied and dragged toward the clearing. The Pigpen They didn’t kill us—not immediately, at least. They threw us into what could only be described as a pigpen. The stench of sweat, fear, and despair was overwhelming. The floor was covered in straw, and there were shackles bolted to the walls. The women tied us to the posts, making sure we were secure, and left us there to watch. From the pigpen, we could see through a grimy window into the main area where the show was happening. The firepits glowed brighter as the music got louder, a mix of drums, heavy bass, and haunting vocals that seemed to echo through the night. Women in dark leather outfits danced and laughed, their movements hypnotic and commanding. In the center of it all, three pig-like men—longpigs, I realized with horror—were roasting over open flames. They were basted and rotated slowly, their skin crackling, while the crowd cheered and sang. The Show The women were relentless, devouring flesh with a primal hunger that terrified and fascinated me. Every bite they took was accompanied by laughter and cheers, as if this was the most natural and joyous thing in the world. I couldn’t take my eyes off them, even as my friends begged me to look away. “Don’t watch,” one whispered, his voice shaky. But I couldn’t help it. It was horrifying and captivating at the same time. I noticed something strange: some of the piggies were smiling. Even as they were basted, tied, and roasted, they looked… proud. As if this was some kind of honor. That thought chilled me to the bone. Would I feel that way? Could they break me to the point where I’d accept this fate? I didn’t want to know, but I couldn’t stop thinking about it. The Fear and the Wonder The night stretched on, and the more I watched, the more questions filled my mind. What would happen to us? Were we next to be roasted? Or would they toy with us first, breaking us down until we begged for the fire? I could see the excitement in the women’s eyes when they glanced at the pigpen. They were sizing us up, deciding who would go first. My skin crawled, but a small part of me—a part I hated—wondered what it would feel like to be chosen, to be part of their ritual. The firelight flickered through the window, casting shadows across the pigpen. My friends were quiet now, their faces pale and their eyes wide with fear. We were helpless, tied and trembling, watching as the night unfolded in a mix of terror and twisted fascination. As the music thundered and the women danced, I realized one thing: we were no longer hikers or explorers. We were pigs in their eyes, and our fate was in their hands. What would happen next? Would we be broken, basted, and devoured like the others? Or was there some other horror waiting for us? The unknown was the worst part—terrifying, yes, but also thrilling in a way I couldn’t explain. The fire burned on, the music roared, and the women feasted. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I couldn’t help but think: is this how it ends?

When I first heard about the Femcans Show happening at the legendary Human Farm, I was so excited my snout could barely stop twitching. I had been dreaming of this moment—being part of the ultimate celebration of femcan power and piggie devotion. So, I did what any eager longpig would do: I sent an email through the site, begging for the chance to attend and maybe even be one of the chosen piggies for the roast. To my surprise, I got a reply within hours! “You’re in, piggie,” it said. My heart raced. It was real. This was my chance to fulfill my purpose. Getting Ready for the Big Event Preparing for the show was almost as exciting as the event itself. First, I shaved myself squeaky clean—head to toe—because no femcan wants a hairy piggie on her platter. Then I oiled myself up, making sure my skin was smooth and glistening, ready for the flames. I even practiced squealing just right, so my sound would be pleasing to the femcans’ ears. I wanted to be perfect. The trip to the farm was unforgettable. I was escorted in the back of a special trailer, surrounded by the scent of woodsmoke and roasting meat. The whole way, I imagined the farm: the firepits, the smoke billowing in the air, and the femcans with their knives and whips, commanding every moment of the show. My mind was racing, my tail practically wagging with excitement. Arrival at the Human Farm When I arrived, the energy was electric. Fires blazed high, smoke curled into the night sky, and music roared from the speakers. The femcans were dressed in their most commanding outfits—leather, chains, and blood-red accents that made my little piggie heart thump like crazy. Piggies were everywhere, squealing and scrambling to be noticed. Some were on all fours, others strapped to tables, all eager to serve. Then came the announcement: “Three lucky piggies will be roasted live tonight as part of the Femcans Show!” The crowd went wild. My squeals joined the chorus. The femcans walked among us, selecting their favorites. My breath caught as one stopped in front of me, her gaze sharp and commanding. “This one,” she said, tapping my chest with the tip of her blade. My knees nearly gave out. I was chosen! The Roast Begins As I was prepared for the firepit, the femcans teased me and the crowd cheered. I was tied and basted, every stroke of the brush making me feel like a star. The heat of the flames kissed my skin as they rolled me over the open fire. It was… exhilarating. The scent of roasting meat filled the air, and I could hear the squeals of joy from the audience. I felt like I was giving them something special—a memory they’d never forget. The other piggies cheered me on, their voices blending with the crackle of the fire and the roaring crowd. The femcans danced, laughed, and whipped the air in celebration. It was the most alive I’ve ever felt. Oink oink! What an honor! To be roasted by the femcans in front of such a lively crowd—it’s a dream come true for this piggie. The fire, the smoke, the energy—it’s everything I hoped for and more. I can’t wait to serve them in the most delicious way possible. To all my fellow piggies out there: don’t wait. Send that email. Step up. Maybe next time, it’ll be you on the spit, basking in the glory of the flames!