I used to grow bacon back in the old country. Me and my pa would spend hours tilling the fields, bacon as far as the eye could see. The sun in my face, the smell of bacon in my hair. It was honest work for honest pay, at least that’s what my pa would tell me. For generations, we had roamed that land, and I had no plans to change that. It was the best time of my life. Until that one unfortunate day.
I was twelve, thirteen years old, and my father was on the bacon tractor. It was almost harvest time. See, people don’t realize you have to make sure it’s the crispiest before you pick it, before you send the bacon out. You can make crispy bacon soggy, not the other way ’round. But that’s not the point of this story, to get into how to have the best bacon farm. I wish it was... There’s plenty of books on that subject if you look hard enough, if you visit your local library. Look under...
Sorry, there I go again, trying to remember anything except that day.
...see, we used to have scaredogs on the lawn, made of beggin strips to keep that damn mutt away from the real thing, but we forgot to put it back up after the wind storm. Even though I’ve been told it wasn’t my fault, I still blame myself. I was the one who took it down, I should have been the one who put it back up. But I used to be scared of it, the way it would stare back on those cold nights when all you could hear was the bacon grow. But I learned there are far more real things to be frightened of.
My pa got off the tractor and told me to stay back. He saw some bacon had fallen, and he suspected the worst. I was always eager to help him, but I had never heard him so stern. Watching him walk over to the bacon stalks, him getting on all fours, analyzing the footprints on the ground. I shouted back at him, saying it was probably some prank the kids at school were playing. But then...
Tell me, have you ever seen your father ripped to shreds by the Beggin Strip dog?
It was horrible...bacon where, bacon there, bacon everywhere...look at that bag, what’s it say?! Chewy, yummy, smoky...I heard those words echo as I ran to the tractor, to find higher ground...
That was the day I knew I had to kill him. I had to kill that dog. It was the only way for me to exact my revenge.
I couldn’t do it then. I had nothing to defend myself with. Couldn’t even drive the tractor and run him over since he was on top of my father the whole time. I was forced to watch him tear each bacon strip away. So I had to wait. I went to school. Majored in advertising. Knew I needed to get on that account. I honed my craft as I waited. Starting small, impressing my professors, impressing my bosses. Helping companies attract business. I had a singular goal, and nothing was going to stop me.
But the scars, they would not heal. I would wake up in the middle of the night, thinking I smelled mechanically separated meat products. From the corner of my eye, I would see him. That dog’s nose, just out of frame. I’d turn my head, but there would be nothing there. Just the smell of wet fur and a small strip of plastic torn off of a resealable bag. Soon, I had to cut bacon out of my diet. Each time I would take a bite, the flashbacks would come flooding in. Even just a few Bacos on a side salad would make me lose my appetite, along with my lunch, throwing it across the restaurant demanding a refund even though I hadn’t yet paid. I went vegan, just to make sure there was no chance he could sniff me out.
The first time I was about to be intimate with a woman, when she dropped her dress... She looked like a strip of bacon to me. I began screaming, hours on end. When I came to, she was gone. I tried to call her, but she never answered, her voicemail advertising sausage patties instead. This was the case with every relationship I tried to have. How can you even have a one night stand with some floozy you met at the bar if you can’t help but demand she eat cat food just to prove she isn’t a dog?!
Finally, I became an intern at the company that did the advertising for Purina. It was a cut in pay, but money didn’t mean anything. I wanted to meet the dog right away, but of course I had to wait. His handlers wouldn’t let anyone get near him, but I was promised I’d get the chance at the next commercial shoot. Through gritted teeth, I wrote the copy he was meant to read. Going on and on about how wonderful Beggin’ Strips were, even if they were an artificial counterpart to what I had grown up with. Deep down, I hoped he would never get the chance to record the lines, as I would have already taken care of things...
On set, I was told “Hamlet” was on his way. I had arrived early, hoping I’d be the only one there when he showed, but of course I was the last one in. In these circles, he was beloved. He went to birthday parties, he would playfully bite ribbons to ceremonial openings, he was the goddog of at least three crewmember’s kids. They could not wait to see him again, even from a distance, as he barked in their general direction, pretending to remember their names.
Finally, the procession came. There was the dog, happily running about, his tongue slobbering. Some reached out to pet him, but he was used to this game, making sure to stay away from anyone’s hands. He went into his trailer, and the handlers left him alone so he could prepare. They said he was “a true auteur,” which I couldn’t help but scoff at. Did they not realize who were they housing? His name made sense to me. Someone who was meant to have power, but went mad, killing without thought, thinking he was making a point. Except it wasn’t his father that whispered in his ear, demanding revenge. It was mine.
While they were at the donut table sipping Dunkin Donuts coffee, I snuck in. The trailer was dark. The dog was just sitting there, ready for the makeup lady. But she wasn’t going to apply any makeup on him. That was going to be the undertaker.
I approached the dog. I snapped his neck. He went limp in my hands. But I realized that it was too easy. Something was wrong.
That was when he attacked. I had actually killed his stand in. The dog must have known I was coming, and let his double take the fall. I remember crashing through the window of his trailer, almost losing consciousness. His handlers gasped as the dog went for my throat.
I wasn’t going to let him get me that easily. I had come prepared. I had the whistle around my neck, pulled it out and blew. The dog howled, giving me the opportunity to get him. I took out the knife. I didn’t want to spill his blood, but there was no other choice.
The dog must have done this before, though. With his tail he knocked the knife out of my hand, and then he tackled me to the ground. His fangs were sharp, more than likely from the victims he had slayed since my father. To him, I was just another on the list. To me, it was a personal vendetta. His paws hit with fury. I tried to blow the whistle again, but he wouldn’t let me. He struck me, the small Oscar Mayer momento flying across the room. I tried to catch my breath, but he struck again, harder. I had never seen a dog move that fast. I now knew why my father hadn’t stood a chance.
I pulled myself up as I heard him growl, the shouts of his handlers ringing in my ears. They were telling him to stop, but not because they valued my life. Only because they valued their jobs. I wouldn’t be surprised if they had seen him murder so many others. All I could think about was what they would do to my corpse. Would they toss it in the river? Would they turn me into a Beggin Strip?
That’s when it hit. Of course. The Beggin Strips.
I ran into the picturesque set, a vision of suburbia I had only heard stories of. My eyes darted around, looking for them. As I tried to blink away the blood pouring down my face, I finally saw the bag. Hearing him charge at me once more, I ran as fast as I could, grabbing the hermetically sealed product as he tackled me to the ground once more, my face hitting the unplugged stove.
He hovered over me, fangs bare. The stench of his breath made me gag, it not smelling at all of bacon. He was enjoying this moment, but didn’t realize I had grabbed the bag. I tore the seal off, shoving the bag at him, hoping to distract him long enough.
He laughed.
I turned the bag upside down. There was nothing inside. Of course...it was a prop bag. The real Beggin Strips were elsewhere, sitting on some food rack, waiting for their cue. How could I have been so dumb?! I had been in this business for twenty years!
I pushed him, trying to get him off, but he wouldn’t budge. I tried to roll, but could only move a couple inches at a time. I tried to think of his weaknesses. He had no thumbs, but that didn’t matter as his paws pushed me further down. He couldn’t read, which made me wonder why I had even written any copy. How could he read his lines if he couldn’t read! What sort of actor was this?! I tried to think if his illiteracy could help me, but nothing came through. Maybe if I had a copy of War and Peace, I could use it to fight back, but it didn’t matter if he could read it or not. It would serve as any blunt object would in this fight for my life, as a weapon, a means of escape.
No. No escape. It was either me or him. One of us would not walk away.
I turned my head, his saliva stinging one eye as I tried to look for whatever could be near. I squinted, and saw the whistle. It had flown clear across the room, and was in arms reach. I could get it, I knew it, but I had to distract the dog. Sacrifice something.
I shoved my arm into his mouth, and as I could feel him tearing into my flesh, each tendon snapping off, I grabbed the whistle once more and blew. I blew for my life. The sound pierced into him from such a close distance. He let go, and with my last bit of strength, I pushed him away, my one hand becoming dead in the process.
I blew again. No one tried to interfere. They knew what he was capable of. If I won, would they tell anyone? Surely not. But if they tried to intervene, and Hamlet succeeded? They would become his next meal. He would not care if they were bacon or not. I stood up, grabbing a knife off the counter. I looked at it, knowing it was the real mccoy, something I had made sure would be the case on set. He looked up at me, his eyes widening. He knew who I was. The son of the man who made the bacon. The son of the man he killed. The son who was a shell of a man, because of what he did. But I would not become a dog snack. I would not be beggin him for my life.
I made my move.
It took him 15 minutes to die.
That night was the first in a long time where not a single crispy strip danced in my dreams.