Hell on Earth

In a wood stinking of autumn, a fat man hauls his bulk onward in something approximating a run. It’s his first run in forty years, and given the choice he would rather be sitting in the sanctuary of his office, chuckling over the latest pitiful requests for clemency that he has bundled up and taken from his desk to his armchair — a daily indulgence of his. Today though, following the rebellion, he is being hunted.

Over the past few months he has given orders to torture and kill sixty inconvenient men and women, and one might expect his pursuer to be a vengeful relative or a member of the Alliance for Unity, Change, and Justice. But no, this must be an animal. The snorting and the snapping of branches indicate a large mammal. He knows there are bears and wild boar in this region.

He tumbles into a clearing and comes to rest with his face in rotting, slimy leaves. Lifting his head and turning, he sees it. An entelodont, popularly known as a hell pig and thought to have gone extinct more than ten million years ago. But to the man, no paleozoologist, it is merely an inexplicable monster.

In its size and shape it is similar to a bison, with its broad bulk and high hump; but unlike a bison it has tusks protruding from its cheeks and long, massive jaws with teeth for tearing flesh and crushing bone.

The vapour of its hot breath, strangely dark, displaces the mist that hangs in the clearing. It approaches calmly, and when it lowers its heavy head the man sees a small yellow eye, smells the beast’s faecal odour, and knows he is going to die. As it begins to rip his body apart, he screams — and also laughs, at the thought of justice once again disappointed.