He walked with his chin high, every step he took full of airy pride. He was four hundred pounds - no more, no less - and he laughed out loud every time he thought about it. His hand moved down to a little bag in his pocket. He ran his hands around the object inside it and his eyes lighted up with pleasure. This was the last time he would probably touch it; he could already smell the money that would be raining down upon him soon.

Sitting down outside the local shop, he opened up a book of poems that he could barely understand, flipping to a random page. He read it aloud to himself in a soft voice, looking at the words on the page with a blank intensity. Thirty minutes passed.

The sun was blindingly hot, as always. He wiped his forehead with a handkerchief and continued his stroll. People were looking at him strangely, but he paid no attention to them. He had created this world for himself - a world where he could enjoy being stared at - and he triumphantly navigated this world with a sickening smile. His ship was afraid of no storm, no hazard. He was a fearless pig.