Old Neilus Bawn was only forty two. He was raised to the sound of the whole town's laughter, at his expense. The reason for the mockery was his quaint voice and rare happy snorts. The jabs and pecking accumulated, leaving him dumb, and uncomfortable in his own skin.
He laboured hard enough to earn small money and a large wife. She, embarrassed, insisted on a quiet home.
A sentimental loner, he saved the wishbone from each christmas dinner, and labeled them with the words 'Another Silent Night.'
Then one day, a lady from down the lane asked him to kill her evil sow. It had eaten the piglets it farrowed. Neilus (although sure the animal knew best) slit the swine's throat anyway. Slipping it out of its skin he grunted,
“Fitting, that yer not so full of yerself now, ha?”
It made him think, and from there he quietly dreamed a means to smile once more. So he took the pelt as payment
That evening, while his wife squawked at her shows and cawed down the phone, he scraped off the gloop for the crows. He put his prize in water, ash, and lye for a time.
Days after, he took a blade and shaved off its hair, as he did for his dying father, years ago. Then, he nailed it up high for the wind to dry it.
Over the course of a week, while Mrs. Bawn had rolled off to sleep, he took out years of anger working that rawhide. He bent it on posts and ran it round ropes, rubbing and pushing and thumping, with only his own sweat to moisten it.
In the basement, he carved out holes for his arms and used a rusty skewer to pierce the lapels on his new coat. The size was perfect, so he used those six polished wishbones to fasten it up.
Comfortable at last, he turned the room to darkness, then filled it up with tv. Finally able to let go, Neilus joined the audience in that social coliseum, where his heart knocked beneath his new hide, as he waited for the thumb of Jerry Springer to rise or fall. Soon, he would erupt into snorting along with the rest of the howlers and bleaters and loons.
