To celebrate the upcoming release of James Jenkins‘ new book The Swine, The Pig and The Porker from Anxiety Press, we are offering readers a taste of The Pigs Trilogy!
The Swine, The Pig and The Porker is the final chapter of three books and concludes this dark, gritty and disturbingly humorous series. This book lands on Friday the 5th of July and promises to deliver a satisfying ending. Packed full of corrupt police officers, twisted gangsters and everything in between (not forgetting a pig in bondage gear!).
The trilogy consists of Parochial Pigs (published by Urban Pigs Press), Sun Bleached Scarecrows and The Swine, The Pig and The Porker (both published by Anxiety Press).
If you like brit grit, dark humour with a touch of noir and a healthy dose of cultism, then the Pigs Trilogy is for you. Still not convinced? We’ve got you covered with the first chapter of Parochial Pigs below. Enjoy!
Parochial Pigs (1st chapter)
Blue Tiger
Dicky Farrell was a ruthless piece of shit. Anyone misfortunate enough to make his acquaintance would confirm this. Now, ‘shit’ is a strong word, even given its overuse, and therefore popularity, with anyone who has such a potty mouth. But a shit he most certainly was. His brief existence of but two years in the city of Bristol had been one of misery. Whoever crossed him, stood in his way, ended up suffering, discarding souls on his way up the ladder of the city’s criminal underworld, blinking over their demise disregard-less. At the beginning he had wondered if it would even be possible to obtain these goals using his usual means, but Dicky had learnt to evolve. Evolve probably wasn’t entirely accurate. Dicky Farrell not being the man he now was. It was a world where his true persona could thrive. Because of such success that Dicky’d now found himself in, a position that only the most dedicated lowlifes could hope to be in, and in such a short period of time too. He believed it was his ruthless ability to “get shit done” as he called it, regardless of the impact it would have elsewhere. Coupled with a total lack of moral compass he’d elevated in good favour with his notoriously cruel and unpredictable Boss. Such an asset was invaluable to a man like Bobby Cavendish, a man whose own reputation was far short of a nursery teacher.
Unlike Dicky, Bobby was a charming man. Some would even call him a gentleman. A stranger in the street would say nothing bad about him, should they chance a random encounter with this deceivingly evil man. If, of course, you hadn’t crossed him. Indeed, some people may not be aware of the reputation that followed Bobby Cavendish or the stories. The stuff of urban legends. Stories, how Bobby was known to cause serious injury, perhaps death (depending on the mood that took his fancy) with the most unlikely of objects. Bobby excelled in simple weapons: pain designed hardware for drawn out agony. Many people would think a toilet brush a basic household item commonly used for cleaning excrement from the toilet bowl, an unlikely weapon. Bobby Cavendish however, had an imagination that would make the most twisted minds cringe. Even Dicky admitted that Bobby could go too far, though he cared not for the persons unfortunate to be on the receiving end of such treatment. Perhaps this was one of the reasons that Farrell (who rarely feared anyone) was very keen to impress his psychotic boss.
Back to Basics
18 Months earlier…
The sleek black Mercedes – Bobby Cavendish’s chariot – prowled up the badly pot-holed entry road. An isolated industrial brick building with metal shutters awaited Cavendish ahead. One of the roller doors opened halfway and as the Merc parked close, a man in his mid-thirties ducked out from under the opening. The well-suited individual had an air of authority about him Bobby observed whilst his hired muscle opened the car door.
“Mr Cavendish, it’s a pleasure to meet you. I offer my deepest apologies for the circumstances.” The respectful and genuine greeting pleased Bobby. It was so hard to find good manners these days. Too many of these young wannabes had in Bobby’s humble opinion, a misplaced belief that politeness was a weakness. Only a couple of weeks ago he’d had to cut the hand off a youth who had offered a fist in reply to Bobby’s outstretched hand. The lad had perhaps been unfortunate to catch Bobby Cavendish on a uniquely stressful day. ‘I don’t see what you’re crying about!’ he had said to the inconsolable teen clutching the bloody stump. ‘At least now you have an excuse for refusing to shake your elder’s hand.’ The man awaiting him now clearly had a better grasp of basic common decency. Bobby wondered if the man in front of him realised the impact his manners were having. There were other places Bobby would have liked to be on a cold autumn Sunday morning, than a deprived and desolate industrial estate on the outskirts of Bristol. The unit that he found himself at today belonged to an associate of Bobby’s, Tyson Boswell. He and Boswell had enjoyed a long-standing professional relationship. Boswell’s incredible influence throughout the traveller community had proven to be invaluable to Bobby Cavendish countless amounts of time in his own line of work. Boswell was also one of Bobby’s best customers when it came to shifting thousands of pounds worth of narcotics. It was this special relationship that afforded the level of sympathy Boswell was being allowed today. A very large amount of cocaine moving from Cavendish to Boswell had been confiscated whilst in transit by a police sting. The man who had been driving the transit van on behalf of Tyson Boswell had been the obvious fall guy. The police had placed the man under arrest and nobody on the outside held much hope of him being released any time soon. Boswell assured Bobby that the lad was from good stock and would keep his trap shut, but theories on another rat within Boswell’s ranks had been investigated. So, Bobby found himself today ready to administer furious vengeance to the accused.
Turning over the man as well as half the cost of the confiscated narcotics had been agreed between Bobby and Boswell. Ordinarily, Bobby would have preferred to reclaim his entire fee AND have the rat but sometimes a compromise was the best option. If Bobby Cavendish had learnt one thing about travellers (other than not calling them Pikeys), then it was to not fuck with them. Privately he conceded that it was perhaps best for both men’s professional and physical future that Boswell had sent one of his soldiers instead. Judging by first impressions, Bobby was pleased that at least the traveller had gotten that right.
He walked directly up to Boswell’s man who now offered his hand to Bobby, another mark in his good books. The two henchmen accompanying him moved between the men in practiced defence of their boss. “Play nice boys. This one’s got manners.” The two big men backed off as Bobby took the offered hand.
“Dicky Farrell,” said the man attached to the firm handshake.
“Apologies from the boss he couldn’t be here today, but hopefully I can assist you with anything you need Mr Cavendish.”
Bobby liked this Farrell indeed. Strong handshake, polite and seemingly eager to please. Yes. All the boxes were being ticked!
“Good to meet you Dicky. Apologies accepted, it’s nice to see Tyson has improved his personnel recruitment. I like a man with manners. Formalities aside, what have you got for me Mr Farrell?”
“Connor Tierney. Overzealous little prick who had a misplaced vision of getting rich quick I’m afraid. We have a couple reliable sources claiming he had been selling information to the police. Coupled with the sums of cash we found in his house – we’re confident the rat has been sniffed out. He won’t admit it yet, but I didn’t want to make too much of a start without you Sir.”
Sir! Yes, yes, yes! Bobby really was growing fond of this Dicky Farrell. “That’s very considerate of you Dicky. Can I call you Dicky or would you prefer Mr Farrell? I’d be personally honoured if you called me Bobby. After all, we’re all friends here.”
“Dicky is fine with me Mr Cav… Bobby,” Dicky corrected himself from his intentional mistake as the two men shook hands again.
“Shall we get started Dicky?” Cavendish asked as Dicky politely ushered for him to follow into the building under the shutters. “Lionel, bring the tool kit. We might need it. Joe, my apron too. Things could get messy,” he ordered the two muscle men.
Bobby Cavendish looked at the unconscious naked form of a man tied to the wooden chair. Dicky hadn’t been kidding, there was barely a mark on the bound and gagged individual. Bobby scanned the interior of the building. The industrial unit had clearly been a commercial mechanic’s work room. There were still some odd tools laying around but nothing that inspired him. He leaned his head back searching for the right instrument, a corrugated asbestos roof loomed over their heads. A killer in its own right but waiting a couple of decades for the man to possibly die of lung cancer was even too drawn out for Bobby. He had to admit that his usual creativity when it came to inducing pain and torture just wasn’t there today. That’s when he came up with another idea.
“Dicky, how would you feel about taking the reins for me on this one?”
“Bobby I’m honoured. Although I must admit I’m not sure if I will be able to live up to your own legendary reputation.” Dicky, like anyone who had spent so much as an hour in Bristol’s underworld had heard of the stories that cemented Bobby Cavendish’s reputation.
“Nonsense! Dicky, I have full faith in you. What have you got?”
Dicky looked around quickly searching for something to impress the hardened gangster, his eyes settled on a crowbar that had been disregarded by the previous occupier of the garage. Hardly original he mused slightly worried that the great Mr Cavendish wouldn’t approve. Bobby followed his gaze.
“Yes Dicky! That will do. Sometimes the oldies are the best. That’s what I always say isn’t it boys?” Bobby laughed looking at the two henchmen.
“Yes boss,” the two men replied together.
“Back to basics Mr Farrell. I like it very much.” Bobby did like it very much, very much indeed. This Dicky character was growing on him more by the minute. How the hell an uneducated tosser like Boswell, ended up with such a fine stead as this was a wonder to Cavendish.
“Shall I try to wake up the lazy irk Bobby Sir?”
“Oh yes Dicky that would be most pleasing. Maybe a shattered kneecap would rouse him from his slumber.” Bobby rubbed his hands in glee.
If Dicky had any reservations about administering severe violence on the man in the chair, then he hid it well as he swung the metal bar at full arc into the unconscious victim’s left knee cap. A resounding crack and pop exploded from the startled body as the man came screaming back into consciousness. Bobby couldn’t help but smile. Had Dicky used the blunt side of the crowbar intentionally he wondered? That’s what he would have done, blunt force trauma to get the blood flowing. The pointed edge would be saved for a later blow now the man was fully awake.
“Are you with us Connor?” Dicky calmly asked the man screaming through the gag. There was no coherent reply from the dribbling mess, Bobby watched with pensive excitement. Dicky sensed that his next move would be crucial in Bobby’s assessment of him, so he swung the crowbar again this time using the pointed claw like end to shatter and imbed itself into Connor’s right kneecap. The blood curdling crunch of bone and cartilage entwined with the man’s screams of agony filled the garage interior as full as it did Bobby Cavendish’s beating heart. Oh yes! I really do like this Dicky! Bobby was feeling an overwhelming sense of pride over the lad. It’s exactly the way he would have done it when he had been a younger, less creative, enforcer. That was okay, Dicky could learn, Bobby would be only too happy to be his teacher. His thoughts were interrupted as the man with shattered legs passed out from the pain. This wasn’t a problem to Bobby. He had seen enough. The lad had probably done it and Boswell had given his word that this was the rat. Good enough for me, Bobby shrugged to himself.
“Finish this slippery bugger off for me Lionel. Clean up after yourself, Joe will help,” Bobby gestured to the big men.
“Dicky. You have been most helpful. Please accept my deepest gratitude to you and your boss. I look forward to seeing you again, I’ll be passing my compliments to Mr Boswell myself on your professionalism.” Bobby shook the younger man’s hand again.
“Thank you, Bobby. It has been an absolute pleasure to work alongside you. I hope we meet again under better circumstances.”
“I have a distinct feeling that we will indeed Mr Farrell. Don’t worry about all this mess here, my boys will take care of everything. Until we meet again.”
Dicky left the garage waiting until he was firmly out of sight before expelling the acidic contents of his guts.
Cavendish’s bodyguards had already been choosing hand tools from the bag as he shook the gangster’s hand. He could hear the damage they were making to the man’s skull as he exited the building. It had been these sounds that tipped Dicky’s usually strong stomach over the edge. It would all be worth it though if as he suspected it all went to plan. It had been a lucky escape in hindsight, Connor wasn’t guilty of ratting on anybody. The only thing the unfortunate lad had been guilty of was being in the wrong place at the wrong time. If Connor had talked it would have been to protest innocence, but then so would a rat if he had Bobby Cavendish standing in front of him. Nobody was going to find the rat, Dicky knew this. Connor just made a good fall guy, Boswell was only too happy to give someone, anyone to Cavendish just to keep the peace. Dicky had been waiting for this opportunity for some time and now he was finally in good favour with the great man himself. If all followed to plan, then Dicky would also be rid of working for Tyson Boswell.
The black Mercedes pulled away from the industrial unit with Bobby Cavendish in the large and luxurious back seats. He waited as the ringing tone sounded in his ear. He was like a kid on Christmas eve. Full of anxious excitement. He knew he could have what he wanted but protocol must be followed. Permission would need to be granted.
Finally, the phone on the other side picked up. “Hello Mr Cavendish,” a thick Irish accent belonging to Tyson Boswell answered. “Hello Tyson. You’ve got something I want. You can consider your final balance paid. Dicky Farrell will be working for me from now on.”
***
Back in current time, Dicky was enjoying some down-time in his favourite haunt: Bobby Cavendish’s very exclusive Blue Tiger, strip club. It was without a shadow of doubt the best strip club that Dicky had ever thought himself lucky enough to grace. The girls were very hot, young too. Not illegal young but close. There was heavy emphasis on the girls to offer and charge for extra services and though not mandatory, those who refused rarely lasted long. There was one who had been made an exception of. She had only been expected to serve drinks and welcome customers. Dicky knew most of the girls incredibly well (in and out), but this beautiful creature was thus unspoiled. The somewhat uncommon and violent threat had been given to Cavendish’s employees that it remains this way. Unfortunately for Dicky, this just made her even more desirable to him and he had every intention of defying Cavendish’s wishes. Dicky knew he had a chance with the girl and that was all he needed to make up his mind. Money can make men do the stupidest things but to Dicky, pussy was much more powerful, and he had to have this one.
One of the well-used vaginas in the club danced provocatively, inches from his face. The girl to whom it belonged followed his gaze. He suddenly became distracted. Dicky was staring at the forbidden girl who had just walked out from behind the bar with a tray of Corona bottles, a lemon slice in each.
“You bored of my pussy Dicky?” she asked with mock offence. Dicky ignored her and continued to stare at the girl setting the tray of drinks down in front of some rowdy suited businessmen. Men in poorly fitted suits and overbearing guts that swelled over their waistlines.
“Emily’s off-limits Dicky, you know that. How ‘bout you and me go out back? I know you love it when I do that thing to your dick.”
Dicky’s semi erect penis had lost all its blood flow now. The girl above wasn’t unattractive to him, her fake tits, orange glow and auburn hair. Ordinarily this would have been his type, in fact she had been his type many times before but something about this Emily’s natural beauty evoked something in Dicky. She was nothing like the other girls and did they not say that variety was the spice of life?
“You can fuck off now Dee,” he said standing up from the chair.
Without giving the girl’s face another glance, he tossed a five-pound note on the table and headed towards Emily.
“You fucking wanker! A fiver?” she called out to the back of his now distant head.
***
Dicky knew Emily would be coming off shift in a minute. Off record, Dicky had taken Emily out for a couple drinks over the last week, he could be a proper Romeo when he wanted to. The girl had been putty in his hands, but she wanted to take things slow. He, of course, had played along, promising her that she was the one. It had been a close call tonight. If she had seen him with Dee, it could have fucked up all his ‘hard’ work. As far as he knew she was meant to be working the door tonight, one of the favoured jobs that Cavendish allowed the girl.
Luckily, she hadn’t seen him. He followed her into the changing rooms and came up behind her. He put his hands over her eyes gently, making the young girl jump and spin round in surprise.
“Dicky!” she yelped with a huge smile on her face.
“Hello sweetheart, still on for tonight?” he whispered in her ear.
“Yeah, give me half hour, see you at mine yeah?”
Dicky winked and left Emily to get herself changed. He knew Cavendish wasn’t about tonight, but it wouldn’t do if tongues started flapping on them leaving the club together. After tonight though, he wouldn’t need to worry about all the sneaking around anymore. He’d won her trust and she had invited him over to hers. Dicky knew that meant one thing. Tomorrow she’d be another notch on the bed post (or rather, the coat hook.) It was too risky to keep fucking her after that, being as this was the sort of girl that only let you in if there was a future, and Dicky Farrell had no intention of being a one pussy man.
He left the club through the back, exiting onto a quiet service road. One of the dancers that hadn’t quite yet taken Dicky’s fancy, was having a fag break out of the club. The girl’s name he couldn’t remember, and he was too busy smirking at the older lady she was talking to. The older woman looked like her entire wardrobe came from an eighties jumble sale mixing a red floral ankle length dress with a winter puffer jacket. Dicky wasn’t buying that wig for one second either. The “crazies” had certainly been about lately. Trying to talk to the girls about their sins and join their church. The sort of thing he considered mad-bull-shit. He gave the girl a wink as he walked by and blanked the other woman, not wanting to waste his time. After-all, Dicky had a big date tonight.
Buy the full book from the link below.
Urban Pigs Press 
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