Chương 107: The Evolution of Pigs

The office was quiet, with only the crisp sound of typewriters clicking away.

Arthur was completely immersed in a wonderful state.

He was activating the skill called "Smiling Half-Step Madness" in his mind.

If it were the old "sharp-tongued critic," he would feel his blood boiling when writing, and every word would be like a freshly sharpened blade, carrying a murderous intent.

The feeling now is more like that of a kind old pastor looking at an incorrigible sinner.

He decided to adapt George Orwell's Animal Farm.

However, he does not intend to copy the entire book, since some political metaphors are not entirely applicable to the United States in this era.

He wanted a bullet, not a cannon.

He condensed the story into a short fable, focusing on the final part.

The story is simple: On a farm called Manner, the animals drove out the cruel human farmer Jones and established their own paradise. They established seven commandments, the most important of which was: all animals are equal.

However, the clever pigs gradually gained power.

They began to enjoy privileges, started living in houses, and started drinking whiskey. To justify their behavior, they quietly modified the rules.

Finally, on a cold winter night, the pigs learned to walk upright. They put on Mr. Jones's old suits, wore bow ties, and held a grand feast in the farm's main house.

This chapter flowed smoothly. Arthur wrote it almost in one go. He focused on describing the scene of the banquet: Napoleon (the leader pig) was wearing a black tailcoat and holding a wine glass. His belly stretched his shirt tightly, and with each step, his hooves made a strange squeaking sound inside his leather shoes.

It raised its glass, addressed the guests at the table, the other pigs, and the human farmer from the neighboring farm, and proclaimed loudly, "To prosperity!"

Outside the window, the emaciated horses, chickens, and ducks clung to the glass in the cold wind, peering inside. They looked at the pigs, then at the people, then back at the pigs. They could no longer distinguish which was the pig and which was the person.

Arthur stopped typing and read the text aloud.

He nodded. The fable itself was ironic enough. The scenes where the animals couldn't distinguish between pigs and humans were the images he wanted his readers to remember.

But not enough.

For a shameless politician like Walker, there's not much difference between a rabbit and a pig, and such irony can be ignored.

Arthur needs to add fuel to the fire. Not just on Walker, but on everyone else who might be going to the ball.

He changed the paper and typed a line in the title bar: "Please don't laugh at the pig in the tuxedo."

After reading this fable, I think many readers will feel angry. You will feel that those pigs betrayed the animal kingdom and their vows.

But please wait a moment. Please put aside your prejudices and try to understand the pig's predicament.

Do you know how much effort a pig needs to put in to learn to walk upright? Its spine is not designed for standing, and its hooves are not designed for wearing shoes.

Every step I take is a violation of my nature, a form of physical torture.

But it did it anyway. Why? Was it for its own sake?

No, definitely not. Rolling around in the mud is obviously much more comfortable than wearing a tuxedo.

It did this for the sake of the entire estate's dignity. It endured the restraints, the suffocating bow tie, and the burning pain of the alcohol in its throat, sitting in that warm room to demonstrate the lifestyle of a "higher being" to the animals freezing outside the window.

What a great spirit of dedication!

When we shiver in the cold wind, please don't envy the pigs in the house. They are carrying the burden for us.

Just as Mayor Jimmy Walker will soon do at the Plaza Hotel.

He will be in that magnificent hall, forcing himself to resist the sweetness of champagne, the deliciousness of caviar, and the flattery of the celebrities around him, to carry out a charity event.

He did all this for you.

So when you see him on the front page of the newspaper wearing that expensive suit, please don't laugh at him. Please silently say in your heart: "Thank you for your hard work, Mayor."

After writing this passage, Arthur himself felt a chill.

Every word was praise, every sentence was considerate, but put together, they were more painful than any insult.

This is exactly the effect he wanted.

If you directly call Walker a pig, Walker can jump out to refute you, accuse Arthur of personal attacks, or portray himself as a victim.

But what Arthur is writing now is: "Please understand that pig; it's working hard, it's carrying a heavy burden."

How could Walker refute this? If he said, "I'm not a pig," it would be tantamount to admitting that he also felt he was faking it, that he was acting.

But if he remains silent, it's tantamount to tacitly accepting this "praise." If he tries to explain, he'll only make things worse.

More importantly, what will those upper-class people who receive the invitation think?

They would think: If I go to this ball, I'll become the "pig in a tuxedo" in the article.

Even if no one says anything to my face, people still look at me strangely.

Who wants to be that pig?

nobody.

Arthur pulled the manuscript off the typewriter and rang the doorbell on the table.

A few minutes later, Isabella pushed open the door and came in.

Arthur handed her the manuscript: "Tomorrow morning, I want these two articles to appear on the front page of the New York Herald and the New York Daily News. Both newspapers will publish them simultaneously."

Isabella took the manuscript and began to read it.

As she read, her brows furrowed, her eyebrows raised, and finally she looked up at Arthur, murmuring, "Arthur—you're really bad."

Arthur smiled and said, "Thank you for the compliment."

"How could you come up with something like this? Saying the most vicious things in the gentlest tone. After Walker reads this, he probably won't even have a reason to hit you."

Arthur said, "It would be even better if he came to hit me. That would confirm the nickname 'pig'."

Isabella shook her head and carefully put the manuscript into the folder.

Arthur continued, "Oh, and tell the printing press we need to print more this time. I have a feeling tomorrow's newspapers will sell like hotcakes."

Isabella took the manuscript and went out.

The office fell silent again. Only the clock on the wall ticked away.

Arthur stood up and walked to the window. Outside, night had fallen in New York. In the distance, car headlights formed flowing ribbons of light on the streets.

Further away, the spire of the city hall outlined a blurry silhouette against the night sky.

Arthur raised the empty cup in that direction.

He said softly, "For prosperity, Jimmy. I hope you enjoy this bowl of chicken soup I sent you."