Shuffling across the ledge of a skyscraper was no easy task, despite the three-foot leeway Chuck had. Being coked up and stoned didn’t help. Neither did the tenstrip he swallowed right before opening his office window. The real problem, though, which Chuck hadn’t considered when he pulled himself out on the ledge, was the wind. Who knew being a half-mile in the air meant turbulent winds buffeting at you constantly? Chuck shrugged to himself. He just wanted a thrill, a new trip to top all the others.

The leering ground below him just wanted to visit with him for a few minutes, seconds really, and told him so.

"Huh?" Chuck said, pretending not to understand. Nothing can happen to you if you don’t understand it, he thought. It worked on the same principle that if you didn’t see it, it sure as hell couldn’t see you. He laughed, then sank to his knees on the concrete ledge.

Why was he out there? Oh yes, the bet, the thrill of it, and the great sex it might bring. One of his patients once told him that the best sex the man ever had was after he got stoned and went train dodging. The man had gotten rampantly aroused right there in the office just recalling the thrill of screaming taunts at death.

Chuck jotted it all down in his notes, of course, and wrote up a prescription for drugs that would settle the man’s blood a bit, perhaps even give him some semblance of sanity so he could wander the free world a while longer. After all, they didn’t pay him the big bucks to tell them they had problems with authority, or fears of inadequacy; all they wanted were the pills he could give them. And Chuck sure kept his hands busy writing up the little sheets that would give them what they wanted.

The ground began its whispering again. Chuck shook his head to clear the voice out, but it insisted in its words.

"Chaaaaaarrrrlie…" He hated that nickname, always had. "Ohhhh Chaaaaaaaarrrrliiiiie… come on, Chucky boy, I’m waiting for you. Your dreams are down here, buddy, everything you could ever want, right down here. Down here’s the last real thrill left, Charlie – I’m all you got left in this world."

Chuck looked over the ledge. The street smiled back at him. He stood up slowly, steadied himself against the wind. Just spit right in Death’s face, that’s all, then leave. That was the plan. What else? Oh yeah, then sex. That’s what the hooker inside was for. Hmmmmm… those tight pink hotpants of hers…

He gathered the spit in his mouth. Then he turned his head and looked though the window into his office. The bitch was laying across his table, head in hand, looking at him in morbid curiosity. He waved, and she waved back, her expression never changing. He looked back to the grinning streets, cocked his head back, then hurled it forward and spit.

"Fuck you!" he yelled.

"If that’s the way you want it, Charlie…" the ground whispered. The wind picked up into a gust, which swept a hard punch into Chuck’s back. He waived his arms in the air uselessly, screaming like a little girl. Then he fell forward off the ledge.

Expletives poured out his mouth on the long decent downward. He watched as the street’s grin opened and its jagged asphalt teeth were shown in all their glory. He thought he heard laughter in the air whipping past him, not a quiet chuckle but a full-throated belly laugh. Come to think of it, the gaping mouth below did seem to shake a bit in time with the laughter.

Oh shit this isn’t happening.

Chuck fell into the street’s maw and darkness descended as the teeth closed in around him.

"Well, you had to go and spit in my face, now didn’t you, Charles?" said a soft voice. A match was struck, illuminating Death’s thin face. The light glimmered off his gold rimmed spectacles. He lit a large lantern with the match, then turned the lantern up. Chuck could see himself now; he was sitting in a chair in front of the thin quiet man. "I don’t normally take offense of that sort of thing – occupational annoyance, after all – but you, Charles, for some reason YOU think you are different from the others." Irritation leaked through the soft tone. "The others seem to understand that it is just chance that leaves them alive after their little escapades, but YOU believe that your life is sacred, special, somehow protected."

Chuck didn’t understand it, any of it. What the hell is going on? Ah, shit, is this what happens when you drop that much acid? Fuck me, either Death is an uppity English prick… or I’m going to have one hell of a hangover in the morning…

"You, my dear Charles, are what I call a soft pig. A pig for the obvious reasons, but soft because you have always lived a soft life, never deprived of your little pleasures. You have never actually failed or been shown your true inadequacy. And so…" he gestured to his left. Chuck felt his eyes drawn to the scene coalescing there. It was green, blurry, but grew more and more detailed as he watched.

Chuck blinked, and suddenly the green surrounded him. He was in a field of grass as tall as his head. The air buzzed with insects busy doing their daily chores. It was warm and damp, but as Chuck stood he felt a comforting breeze move across his body. All over his body. Startled, he looked down and realized he was completely naked.

"Aww, damn, we found another stray." Chuck jerked around at the gravel voice. What looked like a country hillbilly, complete with hunting vest and shotgun, stood not ten feet away staring at him. The hillbilly laughed. "He looks damn scared, too. Get over here, Jon, and bring the collar." He yelled out into the thick of the grass. Chuck watched as another head popped up.

"Shit, Billy, these boys seem to pop up more and more every day. We’re gonna have to build a new pen for ‘em all before long." Jon said as he walked towards the two of them. In his hands he cradled what looked like a rifle, though Chuck thought the barrel looked a little strange.

Son of a bitch what are these hillbilly motherfuckers gonna do to me? Chuck swung his head back and forth between the two, sizing them up. Then he turned and ran.

"Shoot him quick Jon, before he makes it to the thick of the grass!" Billy yelled.

Chuck made it to the bushes of grass in front of him and dived into them. He tucked, rolled and came up quickly to his feet. Instinct took over, and he weaved his way through the grass, never looking over his shoulder.

There was no sound of pursuit behind him, but he didn’t slow for fear of it. Finally he broke through an especially thick clump of grass into a clearing, and he stopped cold, eyes darting around. He saw a slight movement in the corner of his eye, and whipped his head around to the tree line a hundred yards away. A hand waved to him. Then something stung his ass, and he yelped.

When he turned to examine his ass he found a dart stuck in it. The strange rifle’s purpose became clear.

"Fuck me, I’ve been tranqued," he murmured to himself, then dropped like a stone as his legs went numb and folded underneath him. He watched while the strutting hillbilly, Jon he thought, made his way over to him, rifle in hand. He struggled, but couldn’t get out all the curses he wanted to hurl.

"Damn but you run fast for a pig," Jon said. "But smarts and knowledge of the land sure do beat out that speed, don’t it?" He cackled to himself. "Billy, bring the net. We’re gonna have to drag him in – I gave him a dose that’ll leave him down for a couple hours." He looked down at Chuck and winked. "Don’t you worry, you’ll be nice and cozy in your new home by the time you wake up." Chuck would have bit the hand patting his head if he could. Instead he struggled simply to keep his eyes open. When at last they closed, Chuck sighed and gave in to unconsciousness.

But as soon as he closed his eyes he was awake again. And still staring into mud. Chuck rolled over and looked at the sky. The sun was high above him, shining a terrific heat that was already causing him to sweat. Chuck laughed a high pitched, mad laugh. "Pigs don’t sweat," he said to himself. "So I guess I’m not a pig after all."

"I wouldn’t be so sure yet, son." There was movement to his left, and Chuck glanced over at the new figure. That voice was familiar. "Way I see it, a soft pig has to sweat – it’s just part of being soft. At least they give us some mud to lay in out here, to keep the glare of the sun off us." His hair was thick and gray, not the thin white he remembered, and he had a scraggly beard, but the man sitting in the mud next to him was his dead father.

"Dad?" Chuck asked, hesitant.

The older man patted him on the head and smiled. "Yep. Damn shame you ended up in this nether place with me, but it ain’t that bad. Got lots of company, and they do feed you from time to time. Sure isn’t heaven, but it ain’t quite hell either." Chuck heard the distinctive southwestern accent in his father’s voice that he himself had spent so many years in school eliminating. It got in the way of his practice, after all, detracted from how intelligent he appeared.

"So, boy, did you ever get all that highbrow society living you wanted before you ended up here?" his father asked. He scooted away from Chuck slightly, then turned and sat Indian style in front of him. Mud covered his naked body from head to toe, blessedly covering anything that would be embarrassing. "I remember you going to all those expensive schools I sent you too up in New York, getting your undergraduate degree, but you didn’t do anything but ask for money right after that." Then he smiled. "But that was fine by me, I didn’t need you distracting me from my new young wife anyway…" his eyes glazed over and he murmured, "What a way to go…"

Chuck shook his head. No fucking way any of this was real. I’m still in my office – I’m not crazy enough to step out onto the ledge, no matter what drugs I’m on. I’m sitting in the office, and the hooker is going down on me, and I just wigged out. All I have to do it wait it out, wait until I get off or something, and I’ll snap right out of it.

"So, Charlie boy, you didn’t answer my question: did you get into that highbrow community you wanted to join?" his dad seemed insistent this time. Chuck pushed himself up a bit and started covering himself more fully in mud. It did seem to keep the sun at bay.

"Yeah, Dad, I got into that ‘highbrow community’ I wanted to get into," he said as he covered his face. "I fucked lots of models, did lots of drugs, and wined and dined with the richest of the rich and the coolest of the cool."

"And was that satisfying?"

Chuck looked hard at his father. "Sometimes," he answered. His father nodded.

"Well, boy, I hope you can remember the best of it, ‘cause it’s about all that’ll keep you company here." His father leaned back and stared at the sun. "Yep, I keep remembering that one last fuck with my nubile little wife…" to Chuck’s horror his father’s hand crept down to his crotch and started rubbing away. Chuck turned around and crawled away, disgusted.

"Aw, boy, don’t go and be all uppidy, you’ll be doing this soon enough yourself…" his father said to his back. Chuck shuddered.

He spent the day lying in the mud and trying to forget where he was. When he felt the sun’s glare dying, he turned just in time to watch the sun set.

"Great, at least the fucking sun sets here. What now?" he muttered to himself. As if on cue a bell started ringing. A low muttering arose around him, the most excitement he saw all day. And he smelled something… fear. "Just when I thought it couldn’t get worse…"

In the distance he saw four men, walking his way. Two of them were definitely the hillbillies that pick him up, and the other two looked distinctly related to them. Inbreeding, after all, does that.

"Yeah, Bubba, it’s about time to break in the new piggy, what you think?" Jon hollered. The fat man next to him jiggled with laughter.

Chuck froze for a moment, terrified of the possibilities. He looked around, hoping, praying for a way to escape. There was nothing in sight but the muddy bodies of the other "pigs" around him. Nowhere to even hide, not with how close they were to him already.

The men’s laughter rose to higher pitches when they came close enough to see the bright white of his scared eyes. They didn’t need to smell his fear, it was plain enough through all the mud. The fat one had a leather strap in one hand and wrapped it around his thick hand a few times, then pulled on it, testing its strength. Satisfied, he smiled broadly, showing crooked and missing teeth. The other three surrounded him, hands free and out, ready for action. Chuck just sat there trying not to whimper.

"Awwww, look at the poor piggy, he looks like he’s gonna piss himself right here," the man to his left said. The fat one laughed again, then slapped the leather strap against the palm of his hand. Chuck winced at the sound.

"That’s alright, Paul, as long as he don’t shit hisself," the fat man said in a slurred voice. The other three cackled viciously. Chuck groaned and sunk low into himself, now sure of his fate. It was to be some fucked up scene out of "Deliverance", then. "Get up pig!" the man yelled, kicking Chuck.

The other three jumped on him, grabbing arms and legs and yanking him up. He heard the squeal of one of the other "pigs" and somehow he ended up slung over the back of one, propped up at just the right height for the fat man’s "breaking in". He slammed shut his eyes, ready for it.

He didn’t even hear the unzip of pants before something HUGE was shoved into his asshole. Something tore, and he screamed. "That’s right, piggy, you squeal nice and loud now!" the fat man exclaimed, pleased. He continued to pump in and out, ripping further and further into Chuck with each pistoning action. Chuck screamed with each thrust.

Just as he started to go numb in his ass and the pain became almost bearable the leather strap came slamming down over his back. "Faster, you fucking pig, faster!" the other three men yelled almost in unison. The thrusts came faster, now accompanied by slaps across his back that stung like fire. One of the men reached under him, grabbed his dick and yanked hard. Chuck thought he would pass out, but found he couldn’t. Instead he simply screamed even louder.

"Damn Bubba, this pig doesn’t seem to like you much, his little willy ain’t hard at all," the man holding his dick said. He continued yanking on it. The fat man grunted, slowed his thrusts. Chuck saw black as the leather strap was thrown over his face then pulled tight so it fell in his mouth like a bit. The fat man tugged hard on it.

"You don’t like me, huh piggy?" Chuck gagged, almost threw up. The thrusting renewed its vigor, and Chuck’s head was yanked back with in time with them. "You like that, you fucking soft pig? Huh?!" the man grunted.

"Hey Bubba, let up a second, he looks like he’s got something to say…" Jon said. Chuck sucking in a breath when the leather was removed from his mouth. "So, pig, you got something you wanna say?"

Chuck looked up at the hillbilly, hatred and fear mingled in his eyes. He took a deep breath.

"Yeah. GET THE FUCK OFF ME YOU HONKEY BITCH!!"

"Jesus, man, you don’t have to be such a shithead about it," the hooker said, staring up from his unzipped pants. "Not my fucking fault you couldn’t get it up." She stood up, gave him a cold glare. "I’m still taking my money, though, I’ll tell you that."

Chuck watched in amazed silence as she walked over to his desk, opened his wallet, took several twenties, then walked out of his office. Even staring at those hotpants did absolutely nothing. He looked down at his limp dick, covered in orange lipstick from the bitch’s lips. He was sore all over, like he had been beaten.

The window was still open and the wind was whipping so hard his curtains were starting to pull free of their rings. Laughter dripped in through that window and shivered its way down Chuck’s spine.

"And now, Charles, you know what I mean by a ‘soft pig’," came the whisper on the wind.

Chuck started crying like a baby.