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FIVE MINUTES LATER, with a soft ping, Ponga cut the first wires. Carefully he clipped a whole section of fence while the others silently coiled the wire and lay it out of the way. They weren’t that far from the road and every time a car went by they all hunched down nervously until it passed.
“Right,” said Ponga, gesturing, “this is all Boyd’s land.” He pointed across the unkempt paddock to the road, “We’ll run the pigs straight across to that gate, see? Then a left turn and straight on to the Festival. Once they’re loose you and... what’s your name again?”
“Piho.”
“You and Piho take a side each and get them moving. I’ll head them left at the last gate. Now, go and bust open that prison!”
“It's time,” growled Myra, hefting a giant set of bolt-cutters, “we’re going in!”
They went through the cut fence, reaching the buildings from the rear. There was manure scattered everywhere from Boyd’s little spin on the front-end-loader on Wednesday, so Blowfly was in heaven. He was straining at the leash, trying to roll in every knob of it.
“Quit it!” growled Piho, pulling the beast closer. Then he stopped to look up at the methane digester. “What the hell’s that thing?”
Randy explained what it did.
“Cool,” said Piho, “a giant fart machine!”
Randy started snickering but quickly shut up when Myra suddenly started hissing, “Quiet! What’s that?” The boys heard it too - out at the main gate, Keith’s ute was coming back! “Get down! Everyone hide!”
Beau and Myra ran one way and Randy and Piho went the other, quickly realising they had nowhere to hide except inside the tangle of pipes and tanks under the digester itself.
“Is it clear yet?” whispered Randy after a while.
“Dunno,” answered Piho who had a better view out, “can’t see anything.”
Then they heard something - a building being unlocked. They waited, hearts thudding. A little later they heard the same sound again, but in reverse. Had Keith come back for something he’d forgotten? Would he leave now?
Then they heard an engine start, a vehicle moving, and finally Myra calling ‘All clear.’ As they wriggled their way out of cover Piho paused to look at something. “Hey, look, it’s even got an in-built computer.”
“Yeah, I know,” grunted Randy, glancing at it as he went past, “Now, which way did they... Oh no!”
“What?”
“This pressure gauge thingy. See? It’s pretty high, don’t you think?”
Piho barely glanced at it, “I dunno. Come on. We’d better find the others.”
But Randy didn’t move. “No, no, hang on. This doesn’t look right.”
“What do you know about it anyway?” snapped Piho, “Come on, lets find the others!”
“But it don’t look right! See? ‘Digester-Cycle Equaliser Tank’ - I mean, doesn’t that kind of sound important?”
“No it doesn’t! Come on!”
But still Randy paused, studying the gauges. A few others didn’t look too good either. There was more high pressure here, and some high temperature there. And now a little orange light was blinking on the computer screen.
“But, Piho, what if...”
“Don’t touch that thing, ya moron! Leave it alone!”
“But I reckon if I just open this valve it...”
“Get your hands off it!” yelled Piho, slapping Randy’s hands away, “Knowing your track record, you’ll cause it to explode! Now come on!” Piho peered around the empty yard again, “Where are they anyway?”
Randy took a deep breath and stood away from the controls. Piho was right: best leave it alone.
He decided to find his way to either Unit One or Unit Two, they were the ones that definitely had pigs. Yes: there! And the doors were open, their locks mangled and hanging loose. They looked into Unit Two. Myra was going around, methodically snipping the pig-pens open with her bolt-cutters, and Beau was filming everything.
The pigs were quiet, but as soon as the boys stepped in they went birko, grunting and squealing like mad.
“It’s the dog!” hissed Myra, “Get him out!”
Piho dragged Blowfly out but the pigs didn’t settle down. They started rearing up in the pens, peering at Randy with those mad little eyes, and snorting insanely.
He quickly backed out, calling to Myra, “We’ll do Unit One!”
But the same thing happened in the other building. The pigs started going nuts. The boys hurried around the walkways, pulling up all the pins, but they didn’t swing open the latches just yet. The pigs were really crazed, shaking at their gates and squealing wildly.
Just then Ponga turned up. “What’s the hold-up... Cripes!”
“They, ah, I guess they like us!” explained Piho, as alarmed as Randy was.
“Okay, okay,” said Ponga, thinking fast, “Um, you get outside. I’ll finish in here. Justin’s up at the last gate, so he’ll head them, but I want you up ahead with the dog. Do you best! Head 'em left!”
They boys hurried out the back way and through the open cut fence, but almost immediately came a frightening commotion behind them. The pigs were loose! Randy looked back. A tide of giant flabby bodies surged around the corner and started racing towards them. Piho uttered his favourite expletive, then “Run!”
The boys raced for the gateway on the far side.
Blowfly was totally freaked. He ran ahead at full throttle, towing Piho after him.
“It’s the truffles!” Randy realised suddenly, ‘They’re after the truffles!”
“Well they’re not getting mine unless they pay for them!” replied Piho grimly, moving ahead with a definite speed advantage. In fact it was all he could do to keep on his feet.
Randy was not so lucky, lacking any dog-assisted take-off, and he fell further behind. He sensed the first pig was nearly at his ankles. He was doomed, unless...
Reaching into his pocket he pulled out the truffle he’d dug up earlier. It was definitely the biggest, most perfect truffle he had ever found, $5,000 worth at least. But he had little time to appreciate this. Still running a full speed he stuck it in his mouth and bit off a chunk and spat it out behind him. The lead pig missed it. It fell to the second-runner who nose-dived to a stop. About five other pigs dived at the same spot too, all desperate to snozzle up the prize. All but one of them got a mouthful of paddock. More and more pigs arrived, sniffing all around. But after a quick and fruitless search they conferred hastily and agreed that there had to be more of that fabulous stuff where the first bit came from, and resumed the chase.
But it had given Randy a few seconds lead, just as he’d hoped. He had gained ten metres and had another bite of truffle at the ready. Lobbing it back like a grenade, then another, he gradually increased his lead. But did he have enough to get to safety?
And was there any safety to get to?
At the gate he turned left. The pigs streamed out and raced after him. Up the road they all ran, Blowfly in the lead, running between a double row of parked cars and the occasional startled bystander. The porcine cacophony had by now attracted the attention of those ahead. Heads began to turn. Eyes popped. Jaws fell like lead balloons.
Randy kept biting and spitting, terrified of the idea of being trampled. There was no other option but to keep going. And lo! There was Tammy at the gates, waving madly, leaping up and down, cheering him on. Had it not been for her he would have run straight on, but under her shining gaze he veered through the gates like an Olympic torch-bearer and ran for all he was worth up the grand sweeping driveway, tossing back his lat two 'grenades'.
Piho had gotten to safety somewhere but Randy was still in danger. He sprinted across the big lawn, past the colourful tents, the handcraft stalls, the elegantly dressed people sitting at their elegant tables (delicate-looking tables they were too; loaded with delicate food and lots of delicate-looking wine glasses) and then around the corner toward Pierre’s tent. He went past the little stage where the Mayor of Kainui was making his lunchtime speech in front of the silent jazz band. All heads turned to this new commotion, ever jaw dropped open, everyone froze in horror – gaping in disbelieve at a great stinking tide of pig flesh and its unlikely Pied Piper.
#
TWENTY TONNES OF PIG hit the Environmental Arts Festival like... well, like twenty tonnes of pig. Things began to fall over. Things began to smash. People began to scream. The jazz band scattered as a pig charged across the stage. The stage collapsed. But Randy ran on. He had hope now. He was saved. Pierre’s tent!
The pigs smelt the food and charged on past him. The tent collapsed like a house of cards. Copper pans and tables and bunting and hot-plates and plastic food bins were flung about. Pierre leapt to safety, cursing like a fluent Kiwi bloke. Then the pigs proceeded to trample everything flat in their crazed search for truffles. They dined (somewhat inelegantly) upon: bagatelle ($10), choux pastry ($12.50), and omelette ($15).
And not one of them paid.
#
THE FIRST ASSAULT WAS over. The pigs were now milling around aimlessly, hunting out the last delicacies from the trampled turf. As the festival-goers (mostly farmers anyway) began to get organised, trying to control the pigs, Randy edged his way discreetly out of the chaos and back towards the gates, where he soon found there a different ruckus going on.
Tammy and Myra were standing on top of the big brick gate gateposts and had stretched out the banner between them: STOP PIG ABUSE! CLOSE BUTCHER-BOYD’S FARM! And under that Tammy had thoughtfully written; JOIN A.R.F. NOW!
They were clinging to it as a serious fight progressed at their feet. Boyd himself was shouting furiously and trying to pull Myra down. Ponga was trying to stop Boyd, Justin was shouting incomprehensible slogans at him, and Beau was filming it all from atop of the television crew’s van. The television people were there too, filming, and lots of angry people were shouting everywhere.
Chaos. Complete and utter chaos.
Randy edged away. This was probably his last chance to find the Mayor. But Mr Mayor wasn’t to be seen. Randy hurried into the manor house. There! He was sitting in the drawing room, nursing a bruised leg and surrounded by concerned friends and council staff.
“Mr Mayor, sir!” interrupted Randy, striding in, “I’ve got to tell you something...”
“Argh!” yelled someone, “That’s the boy! That’s him!”
“He lead the pigs!”
“Call the police! Has anyone called the police yet?”
“No! Wait!” shouted Randy in a voice so loud it surprised even himself, “I can save this town! You can make millions!” Silence. The mayor and all his mates looked at him, puzzled. This was good. He was getting through to them already.
But actually they were watching the big farmer who was silently creeping up behind Randy. Suddenly he was nabbed tight and getting dragged towards the door.
“You’ve gotta listen!” he yelled, “There’s truffles in the Journale Reserve! Real live truffles!”
‘Hubbub-hubbub-hubbub’ went the crowd, all suddenly talking at once.
The Mayor called out, “Wait a mo', Bob!” and the big farmer stopped ejecting Randy. Then the Mayor waved for silence. He got it. “Say that again, boy?”
“There are truffles in the Journale Reserve. Me and my mate Piho, we found them. We’ve been ... selling them. And they’re worth a bomb! Look!” He pulled his money from his pockets, more and more of it, letting it spill to the floor, “Totally legal! (Almost!) Anyway they really belong to Kainui, not to me. Listen, this town could have restaurants, and, and, and a tourist trade, and, and, and stuff!” He'd run out of words.
“In the Journale Reserve, you say?”
“Yes!” (–why are adults so slow?–) “Look, I’ve got one left. Found it yesterday.” He pulled out his last truffle, warm and slightly squashed in its little plastic bag, and passed it to the Mayor. Someone else intercepted it. It looked for all the world like a pig turd, and the Mayor was treating it that way too. He recoiled from the offering.
But then Ms Horne, the French teacher from school, unexpectedly stepped from the crowd. “Let me see that.” She sniffed it cautiously at first, then more deeply, “I think he’s right,” she said, “This is a real truffle!”
‘Hubbub-hubbub-HUBBUB!’ went the crowd.
“They’re real, alright!” spoke another voice. It was Pierre. He was looking pretty shattered and was forgetting to do his fake accent, “I’ve been buying them from these boys for the last three weeks. That’s what I was cooking out there today. And by the way, they’re the best truffles I’ve ever cooked with. But I never knew where they got 'em; honest. They always kept that a secret.”
“They Got Them From Council Property!” boomed an angry new voice. It was Councillor Dirke, “These Boys Have Been Stealing!” he thundered.
“Wait, wait, wait, wait, wait,” said the Mayor soothingly, waving his hand again, “We’ll let the lawyers figure that out later. Just give me a moment now.”
There was silence. The Mayor Was Thinking.
Everyone waited.
Finally he drew a breath and addressed them all, “I think, despite this unfortunate matter with the pigs, that this boy has done us a great service. Mr Dirke, I believe we had an offer to purchase that land just this morning? Is that right?”
“Ah... yes, quite a good offer, actually.”
“They’re spies!” cried Randy suddenly, “They followed us and spied on us and spied on our town and now they’re trying to buy the reserve and rip us all off! And I bet they didn’t mention truffles!” There was a sudden commotion at the back of the room. Two people were quickly leaving. Everyone turned to look. It was the spies!
‘Hubbub-HUBBUB-hubbub!’ went the crowd.
The mayor began to smile. So did Dirke. They nodded slightly at each other and said no more. “Let the boy free,” said the Mayor, “and let’s get this mess cleaned up. Whose pigs are they anyway? Some sort of protest, isn’t it?” Someone opened a window and leaned out to look. A cold wind billowed the curtains into the room. The southerly had arrived. Randy hastily picked up his money as it started to get blown about.
“Ah,” said the guy at the window, ‘looks like some Animal Rights mob, and they want to ‘Close Butcher-Boyd’s Farm’. That your farm, Barry?”
Boyd, who’d been lurking in the corner of the room for some minutes, was about to say something but someone else got in first. It was Pierre, who’d finally remembered to get his accent back, “Oh, zat’s anozer zing! - Mr Boyd has been zelling me ‘Free Range’ baycon. So does he have anozer pig farm zen? Where ze little piggies run happy and free?”
“Nope,” said a farmer in the room, “Far as I know, and I’m the chairman of the local Farmers Union, Mr Boyd only owns the one.”
“Zen it seems to me zat zis Mr Boyd has been breaching ze terms of ze Fair Trading Act, and will be liable for prosecution. Hm?”
‘HUBBUB-HUBBUB-HUBBUB!’ went the crowd.
Boyd also hastily left the room.
#
PIHO WAS WAITING OUTSIDE, still holding Blowfly on a tight lead. “Randy!” he called when he finally saw his mate come out, “What’s been happening in there, man? Oh, and the cops have just arrived! I think they’re gonna arrest us! What’re we gonna do?”
Randy just shrugged, “Get arrested, I suppose. We’re already in deep crap.”
“What d’ya mean? What d’ya mean!?”
“Uh, nothin’. I... I just told the Mayor about the truffles.”
“What! You told the Mayor! Arrrgh! You idiot!”
Randy was strangely calm, “Chill out, man. It’s all over. I... ah, I dunno if we’ll get to keep the money, though. Probably not, but the Mayor’s a pretty cool dude. He’ll sort it.”
Piho spluttered and quacked, “You idiot!” he finally repeated, (he would have preferred stronger words but there were too many adults around), “You flaming idiot!”
Randy just sort of shrugged, gazing about at the wreckage and looking serene, “Well, it wasn’t our stuff anyway. From now on all the profits will go directly to Kainui.”
“Geez!” Piho raged on, “I can’t believe it! I just can’t believe it! You’ve really turned into a Greenie, dude!”
“No,” said Randy quietly, “I just turned into someone who cares.”
Piho went silent at that. Somebody went past, chasing a pig. Ten second later they came back the other way, getting chased by a different pig.
Then Randy sort of pulled himself up straight, “Well, I’m going round the front – get myself arrested. Wouldn’t want to see Tammy arrested without me.”
“Hang on!” called Piho, “Wait!”
“What?” asked Randy, stopping halfway around the manor-house.
Piho had dollar signs in his eyes; Randy had seen the look before. He tried to drop his voice but the words still came out real loud, “We’ve still got Blowie!”
“Eh?”
“Blowfly! They won’t be able to find them without our genius truffle-seeking missile!Dude; he's the bomb! Every year we’ll just rent him out! We’ll be rich!”
Randy started spinning on the spot, holding onto his head like a madman, “Ah! Strewth! Knock me dead! It’s all worked out after all!”’
Piho had to smile too, despite all the trouble he knew he was in.
He was impressed with his mate Randy; really impressed. “Yep,” he said finally, “and at least nothing exploded this time.”
“Oh my God!” said Randy, his smile vanishing.
“What is it? What’s up?”
“That pressure gauge thing! I’ve gotta tell Ponga about it!”
“Well,” said Piho, pointing past Randy’s shoulder, “He just got arrested.”
Sure enough, Ponga was just getting put into a police car. Randy looked closer and saw that Tammy and Beau were already in the back seat.
“Come on!” Randy lead the way, sprinting to the car. “Hey!” he called to the policeman, “We did it too! Arrest us as well!” He dived into the the police car. Piho jumped in too.
“Hey!” said the cop (it was Constable Eddie, almost a friend). He grabbed at the door handle but was too late – Randy had just locked it. Eddie banged on the window.
“You can’t do that!”
But the boys were ignoring him, talking wildly to Dreadlocks in the back seat. The cop watched, perplexed, then marched off to find his mate who had the keys.
Meanwhile Ponga listened to Randy, his jaw slowly dropping lower and lower. “What! The equaliser valve? That’s serious, dude!” He yanked open his door, “Hey, constable!” he called urgently, “HEY!”
The cop stopped and turned back, “What now?” he snapped.
BOOOOOM! went the methane plant from three paddocks away. Everyone jumped with fright and turned to look. A huge manure hopper was seen to fly into the air, spinning end over end, flinging its contents violently into the sky. Then it fell back, landing neatly upon Barry Boyd’s office. Above the farm a huge dirty cloud of straw and other particles was pushed higher by the explosion, already adrift on the wind. It did not take long for everyone to figure out exactly where it was going to land.
“Ahh, never mind.” Ponga shut and locked the door as the first piggie-poops began raining down.