Summary: It's always wise to be cautious concerning pub wagers, especially when the local demons know something about Blandings Castle which Spike unfortunately neglected to find out beforehand.
"Nobody said it was so bloody big!" snarled Spike, glaring all the while at the massive animal peacefully snoring away in its pen.
Hearing that very annoyed comment from her latest visitor, the Empress of Blandings then woke up. Opening one eye, she sleepily gazed back at the strange-smelling human presently regarding with genuine ire the enormous pig stretched out on its clean straw laid upon the barn floor.
Irritably shoving his hands in his pants pocket, Spike now understood the reason for the suppressed snickers made by those demon wankers left behind in the village pub when the sloshed vampire staggered outside into the moonlit night there after making his ill-considered bet just an hour or so ago. On his helpfully-directed way to the nearby castle, Spike partially sobered up by the time he'd arrived overland at the place, enough so that a demon's keen nose easily followed the scent of his latest prey to an estate barn.
Inside the snug livestock quarters, Spike glowered off into the distance. Dammit, he'd been tricked, no question about it! In all the convivial quaffing with his newest grotesque friends, those ugly sods talking about the neighborhood's prize-winning pig mentioned how valuable it was, among other things. Though, looking back, at no point of their intoxicated discussion had it ever been specifically revealed to Spike that this swine was almost the size of a full-grown Clydesdale horse!
Already well into his cups by then, Spike's abrupt jeer as to why the lily-livered crowd hadn't already snaffled this precious porker for some ready cash soon led to him putting down all the dosh he possessed against the pub patrons' own money. To collect tonight, Spike merely had to bring back alive the pig to the tavern, which frankly didn't seem all that difficult at the time. If the oinking beast couldn't be tucked under an arm, all the vampire had to do was to get a rope, tie it around a hirsute neck, and just drag the bloody animal back to the pub.
Glumly eyeing the vast mound of flesh leisurely resting in its enclosure, Spike now said with real venom in his tone, "One of the seven wonders of the ancient world, the statue called the Colossus of Rhodes, it couldn't have picked up and carried this load under one arm! Not without needing a damn derrick!"
As if to directly contradict Spike's grouchy complaint, the Empress of Blandings now came fully awake and heaved herself up onto her four hooves. She then ambled over to where her visitor was standing in front of the interior fence confining the pig, to then lean against the vertical oak planks. These two-inch thick pieces of lumber promptly bulged outwards from the gigantic weight now pushing against them, making agonized creaking noises all the while.
Looking down with raised eyebrows, Spike studied how the huge porcine head was now presenting itself just below where the vampire was located. From the pig's open mouth next came a loud "UNGHH!"
Spike glanced around a bit nervously. There hadn't been any sign of a caretaker for this pig when he'd entered the barn, but that didn't mean there wasn't one ready to show up at any moment, attracted by that strident grunting. He automatically hissed at the pig, "Shut up, will you?"
"UNGHH!"
"Quiet!" snapped Spike again in response, his voice becoming a little panicked. At that point, the vampire's attention was diverted by how the pig's right ear was quivering, almost as if...
"Oh, you must be completely joking," Spike muttered under his breath taken just for that disbelieving statement.
"UNGHH!"
Giving an incredulous shrug of his shoulders which clearly indicated Spike was already regretting the hasty decision he'd just made, a demon's hand was nevertheless put forward into the proper position. Then, Spike gave the pig a good, long scratch behind this animal's ear.
The Empress of Blandings uttered a blissful groan. Fortunately, that happy noise soon trailed off into a contended silence. Spike still kept on scratching, lest stopping this caused that royal sow to begin protesting at the top of her lungs the cessation of that relieving action against a very persistent itch.
After a minute or more of continuous rubbing, Spike started wondering what the hell to do next. The most sensible thing was to just admit defeat, leave here, and pay up his lost wager at the pub. On the other hand, this hog was really enjoying his scratching, so maybe he could coax that wagonload of potential bangers into-
"Magnificent, isn't she?"
Spike jerked his hand away from its former position and whirled around in shock. He hadn't heard at all who'd just sneaked up on him and said that! Gazing with astonishment at the mature man in his slightly shabby garments standing in the barn's open doorway, Spike's puzzlement was interrupted by a now familiar complaint coming from behind:
"UNGHH!"
Wandering over to stand in front of the fence next to Spike, the tall and thin stranger placidly suggested, "Go ahead, my dear chap, put your hand back where she likes it the most."
After a moment's hesitation, Spike did as he'd just been advised. When a set of cold fingers started working away once more behind her ear, the Empress of Blandings let out a low moan of pleasure. Warily glancing out of the corner of his eye, Spike saw the bald gaffer at his side beam downwards with absolute pride at the farm animal truly enjoying herself.
Not knowing what else to say, Spike asked, "You the keeper for this pig?"
"Oh, no, that's Wellbeloved," replied the other man, who then nearsightedly peered around the otherwise deserted barn before remembering the pince-nez hanging from its chain around his neck. Bringing up these glasses to perch them onto his nose, an owlish glance was sent Spike's way, along with the vampire now hearing from his companion, "I say, dash it all, is he gone again? I thought the blighter had learned his lesson, after the Empress nearly lost the trophy due to his carelessness!"
"What?" frowned Spike into the foolishly-amiable face of this berk who'd just delivered that totally baffling statement.
Brightening up at this newest opportunity to share the story of the latest triumph for the Empress of Blandings, the untidily-dressed man now gladly discoursed at full length the events of the last few days: the pig-keeper sent to the clink for being caught drunk and disorderly, resulting in the Empress going off her feed, a desperate search for the master call to which all pigs will respond, and ending up with the grand victory for his champion sow at the 87th Annual Shropshire Agricultural Show.
Feeling more than a bit disoriented at the idiocy which he'd just been forced to listen to, Spike seized on one specific fact. "Your pig? Are you the owner, then?"
"Quite so, quite so. Ah, that's right, I didn't introduce myself. Terribly sorry, rather. I'm Emsworth, Lord Emsworth, ninth earl of Blandings Castle."
Spike froze in mid-scratch. He mentally groaned, *Oh, bugger! That's torn it, the game's up for once and all. Can't do anything but skive off as fast as I can. Killing this aristocratic numbskull would cause far too much trouble for me, and I damn well haven't the slightest hope of filching Missus Bacon anyway. Time to cut your losses and depart without further ado, mate.*
Taking his hand off the apparently slumbering pig, Spike politely offered this to His Lordship, who exercised a benevolent handshake with another set of quite icy fingers. Once this was done, Spike cautiously edged past the other man, who didn't seem to be paying any further attention to the vampire. Instead, the Emsworth bloke stayed where he was, fondly taking in the swine asleep in her pen all through Spike's circumspect exit from the barn.
When he was done with his fast sprint a couple of minutes later, Spike paused on the lane leading to the village below. There, a pub now filled with a room of gleeful demons awaited Spike's return, to celebrate not just a successful prank against him but also for taking that blood-drinking outsider for every penny he had. This vampire scowled. Spike definitely wasn't looking forward to that, all the mockery and ridicule from those sods pocketing his paid-off wager. For damn sure, the whole amusing story would also soon spread far and wide, turning his vicious reputation to absolute tatters-
Now, hold on just a moment. Why exactly should it happen like that, instead of something else?
A very fiendish grin then came into existence upon Spike's visage. He smugly intoned, "Dead demons tell no tales."
Aye, that'd be the ticket. Storm into the pub without the least bit of warning, slaughter all those pillocks, loot their bodies, and then simply disappear into the night. In the unlikely event of any survivors or witnesses getting away to talk about it later on, all Spike needed to do afterwards in case of any nervous allusion to the Blandings massacre would be to insouciantly light up a fag and announce in his most off-hand manner, "I did it 'cause I felt like it, see? You got any problem with that?"
Spike nodded cheerfully to himself. He was feeling much better now, what with the chance for some revenge and a nice, piled-high heap of cooling corpses. That'd make up quite well for the entire bit of ludicrousness back at the barn with its silly nobleman and his overweight pig. The vampire headed off for a glorious round of murder and havoc, never to know just how close he'd come to his own extermination.
Resting his elbows on the enclosure's upper railing, Lord Emsworth patiently waited until the Empress of Blandings bestirred herself again. The pig looked up with an actually intelligent gaze at her owner, and she nodded once, signifying the animal's far better senses had now lost track of a departing demon.
Relaxing slightly, the aristocrat mused out loud, "Wonder where that vampire's off to now? Oh, well, just as long as he doesn't ever come back here."
Shifting sideways to where that demon had formerly been standing, Lord Emsworth commenced his own vigorous scratching behind the swine's ear. A few seconds into this, the man further stated nostalgically, "It's been a funny life for us both, hasn't it, old friend?"
In her current state of deep bliss, the sow didn't bother responding, leaving the man who'd once been Diarmuid Ua Duibhne, the greatest warrior of the Finna, lost in his own thoughts of the past.
Millennia ago, from amongst the mists of Celtic mythology, an Irishman foremost in legend among that land's fighters, supremely skilled with all known weapons, had on a truly special day been nose to nose with his very doom. Right then and there, a quick question was posed by Diarmuid for the first time ever: "Why are we doing this?"
About to finish the task of lifelong vengeance which he'd been burdened with ever since being brought back from the dead, the great boar of Beinn Gulbain paused just before his tusks would've ripped apart a helpless foe lying before the advancing animal. A genuinely skeptical gleam appeared in the beast's eyes at this obvious last-second attempt to distract him.
"No, think about it," urged Diarmuid. "First my father murdered you, a young boy. Then, so your own father could have revenge for this, magic made you live again - only this time, you were transformed into the most ferocious boar around and cursed to eventually kill the son of the same man who started the whole thing. But it doesn't have to be this way! If nobody but you can kill me, I won't die - and neither will you, as long as you don't kill me!"
At the loud porcine snort of disbelief produced by that latter comment, Diarmuid quickly pointed out, "How long do you think you'd last against every warrior in the land looking to make a name for themselves by taking the head of the beast who brought down the famous Diarmuid?"
This time, the shaggy head with its muzzle and curling tusks tilted to the side in actual curiosity at how bitterly that human delivered those final two words.
"Yes!" Diarmuid angrily continued. "I'm sick and tired of fighting! Against you, against every other monster around, against all those uppity kids who challenge me at every chance! Not to mention how complicated my life's been ever since that witch gave me the damn 'love spot' on my forehead! Do you have any idea how much trouble it's caused me? I can't walk a hundred paces anywhere before meeting husbands, fathers, brothers, and uncles, all of them more than eager to cut my throat just because with one single look into my direction, their wives, daughters, sisters, and nieces all instantly fell in love with me!"
The fascinated boar sat down upon its haunches to listen while the rant continued.
"Finally, there's the whole repulsive situation with Gráinne! The way my luck's been going, a few centuries hence people will think of nothing but how romantic it must've been. I don't want romance! I want peace and quiet from the most clinging woman ever born! I want total boredom for the next couple of years while I figure how to get rid of this piece of shite on my head! And that's where you come in..." Trailing off with that, Diarmuid sent a honestly appealing glance at the surprised male pig.
With a guarded shrug of his massive shoulders, the boar indicated it was willing to listen for now.
"Here's my plan," Diarmuid outlined. "We sneak off by boat to the big island eastwards - I've got a friend who'll do it and keep quiet afterwards - and retire into obscurity. Hopefully, people will forget us soon enough, or consider any stories about you and me to have been made up by the bards. We stay together while I learn about magic. I'll work on curing both of our banes, me and the love spell, you stuck as a boar. After that, we'll see. So, how about it?"
The boar steadily stared at Diarmuid until the human began to sweat in his growing nervousness. At length, however, a firm nod was made by this animal as an acceptance of their new compact.
In the barn several thousand years later, Lord Emsworth continued to scratch the ear of his slumbering companion while a rueful smile displayed itself on the immortal's lips. He eventually spoke aloud to nobody in particular, "Well, things didn't go exactly to plan, did they? I never dreamed we'd live so long, or even that you'd turn down the chance to be human again. Nor did I foresee the occasional difficulties that history and magic caused for us both over the centuries. I mean, I liked being a swineherd for most of the Middle Ages. But then the Black Plague came along and catapulted me into the aristocracy, and I could never figure a good reason to get out of it. At least being an eccentric, scatterbrained peer gives me the perfect excuse of taking an interest in nothing else besides the Empress of Blandings. You've never blamed me either for that stupid wizard who cast his gender-reversing enchantment right before you stomped him into a paste."
Taking his hand away to go back to resting his elbows upon the railing, His Lordship grinned down at the Empress. "On the whole, it's still been rather fun, hasn't it? Making it even better are the recent entertaining muddles we've been involved together, old friend. I hope there'll be many more, though we could've surely done without that blasted vampire who dropped in tonight. I'll check on the castle's protective wards, see if some tweaking can be done on them to extend their range to this barn. Don't worry, though, you did a good job distracting him until I got here. If that leech had made the slightest wrong move, he wouldn't have had any chance to realize his mistake."
Lord Emsworth's usual air of being a harmless, oblivious old duffer abruptly changed into a fierceness he hadn't shown since the late unpleasantness with the Roundheads and the Cavaliers. Dropping his left arm at his side, the man shook that limb sufficiently hard enough so that a slim, pointed wooden stick shot out from inside his shirtsleeve. Expertly catching the gardening stake in mid-air, Lord Emsworth twirled several times the weapon he'd snatched up along his hurried way to the barn. Slipping the stake back into position, the long-ago Celtic warrior gave one final fond glance at the Empress of Blandings before preparing to head back to bed.
Chuckling under his breath while turning away from the pen, an idle comment was tossed off by Diarmuid towards a sleeping pig, "I must say, I'm glad there really wasn't any need for a fight here, however short it would've been. You know quite well that vampire dust gives you the worse ever attack of asthma."
Author's Note: Part of the above story is a very tongue-in-cheek reworking of the Irish legend known as 'The Pursuit of Diarmuid and Gráinne', along with other disruptive episodes taken from Diarmuid's life. In my opinion, that poor guy had exceedingly good cause for just saying to hell with it all and slinking away at the first available opportunity to become a solitary hermit.
Further Note: The events of the Blandings Castle story titled 'Pig-hoo-o-o-o-ey' (which Lord Emsworth described in such excessive detail to Spike) were first made known to P.G. Wodehouse's devotees in the United Kingdom through the August 1927 edition of the Strand magazine.