Pork Pie

Here is some flash fiction I wrote about the dangers of adventuring, which is the start of a series on the dangers of survivorship bias:

Pork Pie

The pine cone digging into his back was driving Jimbus absolutely bonkers. It was a nice distraction from the arrows sticking out of his gut, at least. Anything was better than dwelling on your mortality and how it’s coming to an end. Still though, it’s a shame he wouldn’t get to eat the rest of that pie his mother sent with him. Mmm, pork pie. Even though the pork itself had slightly turned, the over-abundance of fresh onions and garlic really made it great.

Jimbus could smell it still, the pork pie pieces spilling from his pack. That was how the trogs found him. Nobody told him that trogs fucking love pork pie. Those motherfuckers would do *anything* to get their hands on it. And now here he was, bleeding from a gut wound, with his pie stolen. He couldn’t eat the pie now, anyway. He was dead.

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