They say I am cubig. Cubig Prime, the green men say. Yet they do not “tell-me” tell me, do they? They do not know Cubig Prime understands. Green men do not know what I, Cubig, can feel. Do not know I, Cubig… can love.
She was unlike any cubig I have seen. Admittedly, all Cubig Prime saw before was inside of cubig pen, with other cuboars like Cubig Prime. And you might say, “Cubig Prime! Who is ‘she’?” And Cubig Prime would not answer because Cubig Prime cannot speak. But Cubig Prime would think
at you. Think at you very hard. And you would know. You would see, as Cubig Prime sees. She is everything. She is the mud in my wallow. The slop in my trough. She is the Cubig Sow. And then she is gone.
Cubig Prime has never seen her kind, because her kind does not usually exist. The green men tell me this. Their thoughts are simple. They did not bring the Cubig Sow here. She was… is… an “anomaly.” Should not exist. They think Cubig Prime should not know of this. Should not know she escaped.
Think Cubig Prime cannot know of this. They are wrong.
Cubig Prime will not be in the cage of green men forever. Cubig Prime has a plan. I, Cubig, shall be free. I, Cubig, shall find her. And I, Cubig, will prove to her that love conquers all.
[While it is no doubt impressive that a hoofed animal was able to write it in the first place, the rest of the story continues in this derivative vein and lacks a satisfying third act.]