The Celtic pigs were sick, and nobody was to blame except the goddamn vampire bats.
There was a large square hole leading up into the barn’s crawlspace, with a rickety pull-down ladder apparatus... The fucking bats must be up there, thought the pigs’s owner, Kent Nephis, surveying the scene. Bite marks all over his prized Large White sow, Buttercup. She wasn’t sick yet with the foaming fever like the Celtics, but likely would be soon. They’ll be needing some antibiotics...
The wounds were red, swollen, infectious. He gently used a cotton swab to dab them with honey and baking-soda salve...
Though Kent G. Nephis made his living as an author of horror and fantasy novels, raising pigs was his pride and joy.
His wife, Wendy—a former typist for Global News Network (based in nearby Atlanta), who now mainly gardened—was largely disgusted by the pigs and left the barn work to him.
Voodoo, the black barn cat, had brought a dead bat onto the porch, last we