The neon sign above The Velvet Swine flickered, casting the alley in a sickly pink glow. Inside, the air was thick with three things: cigarette smoke, the wail of a broken soprano sax, and the distinct, artery-clogging perfume of frying pork.

Pat nodded slowly. He reached into the cauldron with his bare hand, pulled out a fistful of the crispy, glistening Rar, and held it out. “Then you have to eat the truth.”

Gene looked at the mess. He looked at the hungry, feral faces of the crowd. He was a man of processed air and digital reverb. He was not ready for the primordial.

Then, the rival arrived.

The crunch was louder than a gunshot. For a second, Gene’s eyes went wide. His knees buckled. A single tear—of joy, of regret, of pure, unadulterated pork—rolled down his cheek.

“I want you to close this place down.”

Pat began to play. It wasn’t a tune. It was a lament. A guttural, squalling thing that sounded like a train derailing into a deli. He called it “Bacon of the Rar.” As he played, he lifted the bacon-laden ladle and, with a theatrical groan, draped the first strip over the bell of his saxophone. The hot fat dripped onto the floor, hissing like a snake.