HOGS AFTER DARK
The Woodlands change after sundown. The battle hedgehogs retire to their burrows and a different kind of hog emerges. These are their stories. Reader discretion advised.
Tale One: The Pine Affair
The sticky pine was flowing that night. You know the kind - amber sap slow-dripping from the east ridge pines, collected in old ration tins, heated over a caterpillar-fueled flame. The Woodlands call it the diplomat's drink because it makes you talk too much and remember too little.
Spikelette was at the clearing by the old oak, her quills polished with clove oil and catching moonlight like a crown of little knives. She had been waiting for Thornback Junior since dusk. Thornback Junior was late. Thornback Junior was always late. But the pine was warm and the crickets were singing and a she-hog with sap on her breath does not wait forever.
A stranger rolled in from the south trail. No insignia. No regimental scent marker on his belly fur. Just quills and confidence and the faint smell of churros from Taqueria La Puerca Espinal still clinging to his snout.
You lost, soldier? Spikelette asked, not unkindly, not kindly either.
Depends what you mean by lost, he said.
I mean are your feet broken or are you just stupid? This is the south clearing after lights out and I am not somebody's recon target.
The stranger sat down anyway. That was his first mistake or his first smart decision depending on who tells it afterward.
Spikelette passed him the tin of sticky pine without looking at him directly because eye contact in the dark with an unbadged hedgehog is how rumors start and Spikelette had enough rumors already thank you very much but none of them were true except maybe two or three of them were mostly true.
- as told to the Woodlands crier by an anonymous sow who may or may not have been Spikelette herself but absolutely definitely was NOT because that would be undignified so stop asking
Tale Two: Quills in the Moonlight
Dame Pricklepan moved through the underbrush like she owned every leaf she touched because legally speaking she almost did. Her family held title to three prime foraging acres on the eastern slope going back four generations and Dame Pricklepan did not let anyone forget it especially not the young bucks who came nosing around during breeding season thinking a pretty face and some fresh mealworms would buy them access to ancestral foraging ground.
A young hog named Rustle had been showing up at her fence log every evening for two weeks bearing gifts: a fat cricket here, three pillbugs there, once a whole nacho stolen from Taqueria La Puerca Espinal still trailing cheese. Dame Pricklepan accepted each gift with grace and ate them all without invitation because that is what dames do they do not wait they receive.
Rustle said I could forage your acres better than anyone in these Woodlands, running one claw along the top of the fence log with what he believed was seductive confidence but which actually looked like he was trying to scratch an itch on his belly while pretending to be cool about it.
Dame Pricklepan took a long drag of sticky pine smoke from her tiny pipe made from an acorn cap fitted with a hollowed-out cricket leg stem and said You could try. I have seen hogs with stronger quills than yours try to work my soil and leave crying into their own belly fur before sunset so bring me something worth my time soldier or go back to your puddle.
Rustle left into the dark. He did not cry into his belly fur but only barely nobody saw his face so nobody can confirm this detail either way just to be clear about journalistic integrity around here we report facts we do not embellish even when embellishment would be extremely funny which this is not we are professional journalists at Hogs After Dark not gossip merchants despite appearances ok fine we are gossip merchants too but FACTUALLY ACCURATE gossip merchants.
- reported by Deep Quill correspondent assigned to eastern slope night operations beat since 2018; identity classified due to ongoing sensitive field work covering the dame's social calendar which is frankly nobody's business but everyone's interest if you catch our drift reader discretion advised meaning use discretion reading nothing else implied no sir officer nothing implied here move along now goodnight goodnight!
Tale Three: The Burrow at Cabin Twelve
The old warren off Mole Trail has seventeen burrows numbered one through sixteen plus twelve-bis which exists as its own unit due to legal proceedings too tedious to detail here. The important fact is Burrow Twelve became infamous during autumn rut last year when two sows arrived simultaneously claiming occupancy rights based on verbal agreements made separately by different family members possibly under influence of fermented grub cider possibly both possibly neither possibly both times simultaneously which seems impossible but you tell me how else three separate witnesses gave sworn statements describing events that cannot all be true except probably are somehow.
The resulting territorial dispute lasted fourteen nights during which Burrow Twelve produced more drama than actual war operations against Strumpet including several incidents involving thrown mealworms, inappropriate use of military signaling flares for mood lighting purposes, and unauthorized deployment of camouflage netting as romantic drapery within operational perimeter contrary to General Orders #7 paragraph nine subclause C concerning misallocation of tactical equipment for personal comfort activities regardless of how atmospheric candles make things look come on troops these resources cost taxpayer grubs seriously.
The matter resolved when both sows discovered they had been flirting with the same wandering bard named Nettle who performed songs outside Taqueria evenings using a cricket-leg harmonica whose real name turned out not to be Nettle. Actually nobody knows his real name including himself since a concussive incident involving a falling acorn previous summer left him temporarily unable to recall identity though musical ability remained intact suggesting strongly his skill predates amnesia rendering entire backstory suspiciously convenient if romantic ballads need narrators.
They threw him out together, united finally against common enemy (him specifically), then shared Burrow Twelve themselves becoming lifelong den mates renowned throughout eastern slope social circles hosting legendary seasonal parties where sticky pine flows freely. Visiting soldiers welcome assuming proper credentials displayed upon arrival NO EXCEPTIONS especially after incident last spring involving individual claiming affiliation with northern regiment turned out entirely fabricated used falsified insignia obtained via HogBay seller subsequently banned mercantile privileges revoked permanently.
- see related coverage upcoming HogBay investigative piece planned deployment Q3 2026 subject operator approval pending verification standards committee formation meeting scheduled pending scheduling confirmation from relevant authority