Oh, the humanity!
I had your brother killed.
It was premeditated and completely intentional.
I bought rights to his body, paid a man to slit his throat with a cleaver, and collected his lifeless corpse. We let him bleed out, so there would be no mess at home.
I paid another man to singe all his hair off with a butane lighter, and yet another to torch your little brother’s skin to a bright-red crisp. The mass was bloody and peeling.
I poured his own blood and oil all over him—the man who sliced his throat open advised me to do so.
I paid one more man—this one earned the most that day—to remove his intestines, clean out his innards, and leave the rest inside.
I skewered him through the anus and out the head with a metal rod, and set his burned, hairless body onto a lofty display. Pretty soon, my friends from the neighborhood had joined my family behind me—all were enamored, greatly joyed at the sight. He was to be feasted upon all along, and I had paid a hefty sum to see it to completion.
I proceeded to cook him until we deemed him fit to be consumed, and then we did. We sang, laughed, exchanged kind words and happy smiles all around the flesh that was once your family. He became the pride of ours that night, on display by the table head for all to see.
I should be sorry, Mister Pig, I would, but I am not.
I am man, and you are pig, and we believe only in the humane.
