Picture this: me, walking down 3rd Street, headed back towards College Hill from Easton Centre Square.

“What an incredible bacon-on-a-stick!” I proclaimed.

A woman holding a mounted sign and a leash constraining a piglet steps in front of me, blocking my path forward.

“Enjoying that stick of pain and suffering are we, you sick bloodluster!” she barked.

“Excuse me?” I responded, shocked.

“Did you know that before slaughter, virtually all male piglets have their testicles ripped out without anesthesia?” she said, picking up the piglet to her side, revealing his ball-less anterior.

“That seems horrible, but what happened to ole’ Fido sitting by your side?” I replied. “Seems like you had no issue removing his manhood to make him quit humping your leg.”

“Pork is incredibly unhealthy,” she replied, ignoring my rebuttal. “Eating meat is like committing suicide. You are cutting years off your life.”

She unholstered a Draco Pistol and pointed it at my chest. I froze.

“If you’re willing to kill yourself with all that high cholesterol pork, why don’t you just save yourself the effort and let me finish the job?” she sneered.

“Please, I’ll do anything!” I cried. “I’ll — I’ll even join your organization! Please!”

A chilling smile spread across her face. She ripped the bacon out of my hand and shoved a “Honk if you show mercy to pigs!” banner in its place.

She motioned for me to join the line of counter-protestors, who looked equally terrified and forced to be there. After being handed a pistol and piglet, I filed into position and began chanting “Protect our pigs,” still shaking.