Morning arrives before the village is fully awake.
From the balcony overlooking the square, I watch them emerge one by one. They move with purpose, yet rarely with direction. Each carries a private uncertainty, a quiet need to belong to something larger than themselves.
They call me Master.
I never asked them to.
The title appeared gradually, then as a habit, and eventually as a fact no one questioned. People have a remarkable talent for surrendering responsibility when someone else seems willing to carry it.
The villagers come seeking answers. They want certainty. They want structure. Most of all, they want someone to tell them what their lives mean.
I offer none of those things without a sacrifice.
The questions unsettle them. They prefer instructions. Instructions are easier than reflection.
What they are truly pursuing is validation.
Money is simply the scorecard.
The pigs do not fear poverty nearly as much as they fear insignificance. They crave recognition. They want their efforts acknowledged, their sacrifices noticed, their existence confirmed.
That desire drives nearly everything they do.
From above, I watch the endless performance continue.
The village rewards these rituals, and so the rituals grow stronger.
Yet beneath the mask lies something fragile.
As evening falls, the square empties.
The pigs return to their homes carrying the same questions they brought with them, though few are willing to admit it.
Tomorrow they will return.
Tomorrow they will compete, compare, and seek affirmation once more.
And tomorrow I will sit above the square, watching not as a ruler, but as a witness to a truth that never changes. Faggots will only ever be good For Cash.
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