Ok, no more Bacon-Ranch

I felt conflicted as to its origins. I couldn’t decide whether it had been a normal piggy, somehow protected from the bombs yet eventually mutated, or – and this is where skepticism and science-fiction appear; it had beenin the grocery’s inventory; some butchered carcass given unholy life by the eerie effects of radiation and bacon-ranch flavoured chips.
In any case it was ugly. Tentacles sprouted where tusks might have been. They writhed horribly, crumbed with a recent meal of potato chips. It couldn’t have been more horrifying if it were covered in blood instead.
Slowly, I lined up Bessy’s sights on the thing’s forehead. It didn’t seem to mind. I was about to take the shot when the cans I was crouched on shifted. As I fell the shot went wild, annihilating one of the few bags of bacon-ranch chips to have survived the end of the world.
Then the pig was gone, leaving me alone in a light snow of interestingly-flavoured potato fragments. I kicked angrily at the pile of cans – no spam for me. Ham was for dinner.

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