Hammish boy

The situation surrounding this Small Man does not improve. Indeed, the fogs of mystery thicken and darken, the odors intensify, the portents grow ever more sinister.

For one thing, he's become suddenly quite grabby. Seemingly overnight, his stubby metacarpals inexplicably sprouted digiti squirmi which now flail about, grasping indiscriminately at anything within his ominously increased range. Naturally, I have made a point of keeping out of that circle of certain grasp, and have noted the grisly fate of others not so prudent. Most notably, I have witnessed — with smug appreciation, I admit — the Man shrieking in agony as his chest hairs fall into the clutches of his own miniaturized clone. That's right — reap the whirlwind, you bastard.

Also of concern: he poops disturbingly large for a Small Man. Large, loud, and long. Bowelly, he most certainly outmoves his weight class. And I'm not the only one put off by this turn of events — far from it. Both the Man and the Woman recoil in horror at the magnitude of his fundamental force. And the Rodent, himself no stranger to foul repugnance, just leaves the room.

And then there's the really unnerving turn: The Small Man's grunty utterances have changed from the caprine to the porcine, his goatish bawls and brays mutating into the snorts and squeals of the Man-Swine, the dreaded gouronithrope, the fabled werepig. Honk! Grunt! Snort-snort-snort-wheee-wheee-wheeeeee!

I don't know if the Man intended that his creation embody all the virtues of the barnyard, but oh how he must now be dreading the day when Small Man inherits the cockerel's voice and the heifer's bowels. For that will truly be the day his chickens come home to roost.