#FridayFlash: Porridge-Chops

by Peter Etherington (petherin on Twitter)

Porridge-Chops the micro pig was heavily into porridge. There was nothing she enjoyed more than eating bowl after bowl of the stuff. And because she was a micro pig, a mere eleven inches high, she could actually get into the bowl and wallow in it, delighting in covering herself in molten oats. When she'd eaten everything in the bowl, she would lick herself clean. This was how much Porridge-Chops revelled in porridge.

Her companion, Grunter, also liked the odd spot of porridge, but he wasn't as into it as Porridge-Chops. Aside from this, they got on famously, as micro pigs are a very affable species.

They were owned by a pensioner called Old Mrs Withers who gave them as much porridge as they could eat. But one day, the old woman fell under a Tube train and was electrocuted and carved into four separate pieces. For some days, no one came to feed the two small pigs, and the more oat-obsessed of the pair became desperately hungry. Grunter was happy with the leftover vegetables that were available. But Porridge-Chops started suffering from oat withdrawal symptoms, and laid on her side in her blanket-lined basket, shivering and sweating. Her plaintive oinks for assistance went unheard. She decided to take matters into her own trotters.

“Don't go,” said Grunter. “Someone will turn up. Here, have a carrot.”

Porridge-Chops swatted the offered vegetable out of Grunter's trotter. “I want porridge!” she squealed. “Will you help me?”

“You've lost your mind. No, I will not. You need to get off the stuff.”

Ignoring her friend's advice, she left him behind and plunged through the pig flap, leaving him forever. She made her way to a fellow micro pig who lived some miles away. They had met during a micro pig social event – Candice was the only one who could help her. When Candice saw the sorry state Porridge-Chops was in, she agreed to help at once.

“What's your plan?” Candice asked.

“I need porridge, badly,” said Porridge-Chops, “but you have none here.”

“Unfortunately not. I am allergic to it. But I recognise your need and will help you find some.”

“There needs to be four of us to execute the plan I have in mind.”

Together they went to see a third micro pig who Candice knew, and this third pig – Alfonso – knew a fourth – Yvonne. These last two agreed to help Porridge-Chops with her problem.

They obtained a long raincoat from Yvonne's owner, as well as a pair of large-framed aviator sunglasses and Yvonne's owner's bus pass. Thus equipped, they set off for the nearest porridge factory.

* * *

The security guard found the porridge inspector's voice a trifle strange. His head was very small and oddly-shaped, and his raincoat undulated in the most unexpected way. But he possessed the proper credentials for a porridge inspector, in the form of a dog-eared but official-looking Office of Porridge Inspection (O.P.I.) pass. Being the only one on-site at two in the morning, he made an executive decision and granted Inspector Chops access to the premises.

Once inside, the quartet of pigs leapt off each other's shoulders.

“What do we do now?” asked Candice.

“We find where they keep the stuff,” answered Porridge-Chops. “Then we make a run for it. We can't pose as an O.P.I. agent on the way out, we will be laden with purloined porridge.”

“That's too risky,” protested Alfonso.

“You knew what you were signing up for when we started this thing. Don't let me down now.”

Alfonso steeled himself. “Okay. Let's do it.”

“This way,” said Porridge-Chops.

They found the storage room, lined with shelves groaning with boxes of porridge mix. They filled their saddle-bags, and then scampered as quickly as they could towards the exit.

Just as they were approaching the door, Porridge-Chops caught the scent of fresh porridge. Knowing she should stick to the plan but unable to stop herself, she veered off from the main group and thundered towards the source of the maddening aroma. She screeched to a halt as she entered a gigantic room holding a tall vat of hot porridge. This was where they manufactured the ready-made brand. She raced up the spiral staircase to the top of the vat and looked across the enormous expanse of hot, milky oats, being stirred by an enormous steel blade hanging from the ceiling.

“Hey!” hissed Candice from below. “What the hell are you doing? Get down here, we've got to leave!”

Porridge-Chops ignored her. She'd never seen so much ready-to-eat porridge. It made her feel intoxicated. It was too much. Her head swam.

“We're gonna get caught!” Candice squealed with urgency.

Porridge-Chops lowered her snout to the surface of the vat's inviting contents and licked, and the taste was indescribable, magnificent, heavenly. She took a mouthful and swallowed it down – it was like eating stodgy summer sunbeams.

All of a sudden, a deafening alarm started, and red flashing lights began throwing crimson emergency all about. It startled Porridge-Chops, and she lost her footing and toppled into the vat, shrieking in alarm. She tried to get out but her porridge-befoulled trotters could find no purchase. Her terrified thrashing made her sink, and before any of her companions could save her, the creamy sludge had closed over her wriggling body. Holding her breath, she thought she still might find a way out of this sticky blackness, before the steel stirrer connected with her and her body burst asunder.

Her remains were cut into many small pieces and went undiscovered, and the batch of ready-made porridge went out. When someone finally came to see to Old Mrs Withers' affairs, they made Grunter a lovely hot bowl of this ready-made fare, and he snaffled it down, wondering where his friend had ever got to.