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“Welcome to Stonegrave, we’d love to have you for dinner,”

“He’ll do well on our farm,” the basso voice rumbled.
The cornered man looked confused, “Oh I’m just passing through, I don’t need a job.”
A female voice intruded, “He’ll do, Napoleon, he looks… qualified,” she licked her lips.
“I said, I don’t need a job, I have a job, I’m a graphic artist – why would I want to work on a pig farm?” He still gripped the pen knife tightly.
“Oh, I wouldn’t call it work, and anyway, Stonegrave isn’t a pig farm, no,” Napoleon smiled, flashing his black teeth, “No, but you could say this is a long pig farm.”