A few miles down from Blue Valley High School, there was a modest cornfield and small farmhouse with a little pigpen off to the side. Hamlet was the pen’s only tenant. The other two pigs died two years ago: infection that resulted in heart failure. We were pretty sure that the pigs were there for John to raise, sell, and maybe eat. But Hamlet was still around after seven years, laying peacefully in the shade or chewing on watermelon rinds.

Teenagers liked to drink out there. Most of us knew about it because of John’s complaints about kids pissing in his wife’s garden or having sex in it. We would listen to him and nod our heads with sympathy, eventually announcing the end of the conversation by telling him we’d see him at the market Saturday or, for the religious folk, church Sunday.  

Blue Valley’s residents were passionate about town affairs but not much outside of it. They worried about the traffic lights in town square, the quality of the zucchini every summer, our school district’s math scores. And people cared about Blue Valley High’s mascot, which used to be the Indians. The only reason our residents changed it was because the neighboring school district made some snide remarks to our superintendent. And we would not give anyone a reason to look down on us. So, deciding on a new mascot was added to the town hall agenda. 

It was a good turnout. About 75 people came, including myself. Being a history teacher, I thought it’d be good practice to attend. I drank weak coffee out of a Styrofoam cup while our residents argued what would best represent our town, some getting more animated than others. Mike asserted that we keep our current mascot because changing it would be an embarrassing display of subservience. 

“I’ll play devil’s advocate here since nobody else will. If we listen to them, they win. And what would it look like to ignore our heritage?” 

I suspected that Mike didn’t have a complete understanding of the word “heritage.”

“Actually, I think we’d look silly if we did nothing. They want us to make a fool of ourselves. Let’s just change it and be done with it. Take the high road,” said Christi.

This was a strategic response on her part. She told me months ago that we needed to rid ourselves of these caricatures. “It’s wrong, but you won’t find many people here who get that,” she said at the time.  

After an hour-long debate, they settled on the Sheafs—bundles of wheat. Blue Valley’s wheat production was a sense of pride; our agricultural history was a part of freshman curriculum. Now, there’s a large sign of Willy Wheat overlooking the front entrance of the school, round cartoon eyes and a toothy smile beneath them. 

The kids were unimpressed. I remember a few students in my class wearing their old 

“Blue Valley Indians!” shirts to school for a few days in protest. Nothing came of it. But the students saw their opportunity when the newspaper printed a story on John.  

People in town had joined in on the recent push for eating locally, and John was going to be interviewed by the Kansas City Star. They wanted to cover our dedication to agriculture. He mentioned it to me a few times: “At first, I thought, ‘Ha! Why would they ask me?’ But, you know, it makes sense that they’re doing this. I’ve been working a long time.” But, to John’s dismay, nobody paid attention to his interview because in the background of his photo for the paper was Hamlet relieving himself. In other words, he was taking a shit.

This photo circulated throughout town. Christi, the owner of the hardware store, kept a stack of the newspapers, now outdated, by the registers. When I pointed this out to her, she smiled and said it must have slipped her mind. Christi and John had gotten into it a while back over some political issue—a local election, I think. 

The kids at Baker High School started showing up to the football game with large signs of Hamlet on them to ridicule us. This was to be expected. Baker was the school that most closely neighbored ours, and, by necessity, our biggest rival. 

But our students leaned into it. Later that season, Hamlet posters could be seen hanging on the chain link fence bordering the field with “EAT LOCAL” written across the top. Some of our students had t-shirts with Hamlet mid-shit on them. And so, Hamlet became our new beloved mascot. My wife didn’t find it as clever as I.

“I know they’re all teenagers, but even this seems a bit immature. It’s crude.” She took a bite of her hot dog, getting mustard around her mouth

“You don’t find it even a little bit funny? You don’t even like John.”

“That’s because he’s a bit of a jerk. I’ve heard stories from his wife. But that’s not what this is about. The kids are making us look bad.” 

She had never told me these stories that she heard from John’s wife Sarah, but this didn’t bother me much. I spent the rest of the game pondering the ironic sophistication of these Hamlet signs while I picked at my stale popcorn from concessions. 

This elaborate joke manifested into a true and deep respect in the following months. The annual summer fair had a Hamlet booth: Pay to Pet the Pig. John was hesitant but school administration convinced him that it’d be a good fundraiser. I didn’t know where the money was going, but the kids lined up to bring about good luck for the coming football season—it cost only a dollar. 

I didn’t ever touch Hamlet. But I stood next to his pen with my ice cream cone. I never appreciated how big he was and how small his eyes. He was a few hundred pounds at least, and it made him look tired, lying there, looking off in one direction while hands grabbed for him and caressed him. 

Eventually the diner on Lincoln stopped serving ham on game days. Then they stopped serving it altogether. The grocery stores followed suit. Once I saw John ask one of the store clerks where he could find bacon, and the clerk smiled awkwardly and radioed his manager. John was offered beef sausage instead and was kindly asked to leave after he persisted.  

I never questioned the town’s dedication to Hamlet; I don’t eat much meat. I’ve had to stick mostly to fish since my heart attack a couple of years back. And at the time, it seemed in line with our midwestern town. People cared about what was around them, and Hamlet and the kids’ games were something to participate in. It wasn’t until Hamlet’s death that I really considered the whole thing. 

*         *        * 

Cass was playing No Good at the creek. No Good was a game she came up with for her and her six-year-old kid brother Doc. The game was Cass telling Doc that he was no good whenever he would follow her around or try to impress her. Like, he would always bring her the red pebbles he found, even if they weren’t shiny. Sometimes she let him; these things didn’t really bother her. But at random times she would dismiss him, telling him that he was doing it all wrong and that she was going to tell mom what he’d done. Doc was unclear on the rules—he wasn’t even aware they were playing a game—but he’d do his best to please Cass. Poor Doc was so confused. He’d never cry, but he would scrunch up his shoulders and shift his weight back and forth in a way that let you know he was trying not to let his eyes water. Maybe he’d find her a prettier rock.  

When Cass saw a pig festering among the pebbles of the stream, she felt a thrill in the bottom of her stomach. She knew who this was. His spotted sides were distinct. She called Doc over so they could look at it together.  

“What do ya want, Cassie?” 

“Shut up and get over here. Come look.”  

She knew it would make him uncomfortable and that he would try to hold her hand like when he did when he was still in diapers.

Hamlet was belly-up with a long, straight incision from his genitals to his neck split wide open. She thought everything would be redder than that, with all the blood. Cass knew blood was red. She had gotten plenty of cuts before climbing trees. And once she had peaked between her fingers when her parents told her to cover her eyes during a movie, and a man got stabbed, but it was all silly and not real. She had also squished ants on the sidewalk and had seen dead squirrels on the side of the road, but those were always neat and flat. She had never seen anything this dead. Its insides were a stew of pink and grey. Like it was pregnant with something nasty. And it smelled awful. Worse than when she had woken up to find that Doc had thrown up all over himself in his bunk and slept in it.

“Aw, what is that Cassie?” Doc started shifting his weight like he was thinking of running, thinking of not crying. Or maybe he had to piss. His hand was barely holding onto Cass’s pinky.  

“It’s that pig.” Hamlet’s smile was recognizable. Except it was tauter—the whole body looked all puffed-up and swollen. Its eyes were non-distinguishable, but Cass liked that they were so small. It made them seem more intense. They blended in with the flies jumping all over him. 

“Go grab me one of his eyes.” 

“What eyes?” 

“His eyes, dummy.” 

“No, Cassie. Come on.”  

“You come on. You’re doing it again.” 

“Doing what?” 

“I’m gonna tell mom and you’re gonna get it.”  

“Aw come on.”  

“Go grab that stick and poke ‘em out. It’ll be easy. Like picking up a pretty pebble. The ones you find are always so pretty.” 

“No, Cassie come on.” But Doc was already walking over to the twig and was slow to pick it up. He squatted by the head, pulling his shirt up around his nose, and gave the pig’s eye a light jab.  

“That didn’t do anything. Get it out, get it out.” 

Doc was more forceful this time, and he got right in the socket. There was a faint pop and a squirt of liquid. Doc fell back onto his butt.  

“Now you ruined it. Get around the other way.”  

Cass gave him a little push. He frowned and walked over to the other eye, the one Cass could not see, and bent over to get a better angle. Doc’s cheeks were red and puffed up. Maybe he was concentrating, or maybe he was holding his breath. Doc slouched over the thing, and then he fell forward.  

At first, Cass did not understand. She could not see the difference between the pig and her brother. Doc had gotten into it now. He was elbow-deep in pink, and he looked up at Cass with bits of yellow gunk dotting his cheeks and mouth. For a second, Cass thought that a look of clarity came across his face. Maybe he understood how silly it all was. But then his eyes rolled back and his body began to jerk. Cassie never moved.  

*         *        * 

Hamlet’s body was found over in the water by the cornfield. I’ve heard stories from a few 

neighbors, but I don’t think any of us fully understood what happened. 

Doc turned out okay, but I felt for the kid. And his sister, too. When the first responders showed up, she vomited on one of them and asked if her brother was going to die.  

He suffered a stress-induced seizure and had to spend a couple nights in the hospital. The real news was that Hamlet had been murdered, and the creek Hamlet was found in contributed to our aquifers. People were disturbed to think that Hamlet could end up in their drinking glasses. Plastic water bottles quickly sold out.  

We never did find out who did it. There was never any grief—only outrage, confusion, then silence. The kids were quick to point to the rival high school—there had been a big football game coming up, and tensions were high. To retaliate, some of our senior students stole the dead cats from our anatomy classroom, normally used for dissection, and left them around the halls of Baker. That was the end of it, last I heard.

Some weren’t so sure it was the kids. My neighbor Anne told me that she thought it was an inside job. That John must’ve been in a rage, sick of the kids and the pig that shit on his name. I’ve never found John to be that passionate. 

There was no funeral. Our memory of Hamlet sat steaming in the sun, forgotten along with all of the water bottles that found their way to the dump. People began eating pork again, too. I hadn’t noticed that it was back in our stores until I made eye contact with a man as he picked up a package of pork chops hidden by the chicken thighs. We had spoken a few times before through mutual friends, but he averted his eyes when he saw me. When he turned the corner, I grabbed a package of four. 

I had trouble preparing them. I tried searing them in a pan with some butter and rosemary, but the meat looked pale and colorless. My wife liked them, but I found the meat dry and entirely unsatisfying. 

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Hanna Carney is a writer living in Atlanta where she works in journalism and corporate communications. She studied English and creative writing at Cornell University and enjoys writing short stories. Some of her work can be found in the magazines Spires and Meniscus.