As the pig’s splashing, snorting body glistened past the sulky beams of light, Fry cursed to himself, thinking pigs were smart and quick.
He kept up while the pig galloped through dark waste water, splashing. Fry breathed a mist of coppery bricks. It dampened the cocaine globs in his mustache.
“But, but,” said the pig, cheeks blubbering, helpless (he’d lost his firearm in the wrestling), “It was only a routine traffic stop!”
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