When Green Pigs Fly




I’m not a violent person.

I swear I’m not.

Never have been.

And I don’t condone brutality or fighting in any way, shape, or form.

But, good God, these assholes are making it far too easy for me to want to kill something right now.

“So…when are you going to give me your number, Baby Cakes?” Frank says, punctuating the ruckus he started. His tone is both arrogant and assuming, and his body-language reflects that; intertwining his fingers on the table and looking up at me expectantly like he’s some big time politician as his greasy hair sticks flatly to his head like a cap.

“When green pigs fly, motherfucker,” I mutter as I reluctantly write down their orders, the words leaving me before I can stop myself.

The statement just flies out of my mouth before I even realize I said it.

It’s blunt and unforgiving and…so not like me.

And it’s not just the words themselves.

It’s how I say them.

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