Horror - Short

This story is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are fictitious and any similarities to actual persons, locations, or events is coincidental. This work cannot be used to train artificial intelligence programs.  No AI tools were used in the writing of this story.

All rights reserved. When You Need it Most Copyright © Eddie Generous 2026

WHEN YOU NEED IT MOST

“You can do this; you can do this.” Shane Whimmer fought back an urge to vomit.

He took a final deep breath and said goodbye to the semi-peace of the interior of his car. Too often he was back in the driver’s seat after only minutes, seconds in some cases, driving to the next house. The insurance he peddled was junk and he knew it. But a man had to eat, and sometimes that meant going door-to-door, business-to-business, farm-to-farm shilling garbage policies.

Gravel crunched beneath his cheap loafers that passed for decent so long as he kept them swimming under a layer of polish. Secondhand briefcase at the ready, he walked trying to look like a confident man doing the whole damn world one great big favor every time he regurgitated the sales pitch. Sweat rode the ring around his collar and down the back of his suit jacket. It was the 20th stop of the day and 109th of the week. His confidence was thinner than the knees of a hooker’s pantyhose.

A teenaged boy stood in his path wearing rubber boots and shorts, ball cap on his big round head. He was shirtless and tanned to a shade of coffee and cream. His skin seemed to pour over his middle, flabby, but not weak. Oddly loose.

A biggish boy.

Shane Whimmer adjusted his briefcase, making the switch from right to left, and stuck out his hand. The boy waved rather than shaking.

“Shane Whimmer’s the name, insurance is my game. You have a mother or father around here?” Inside, Shane wished the boy was a farm orphan, feeding the herd until social services found out. No mom and no dad? So sad. A scenario like that sent an insurance man on his way without the pain of refusal.

He’d never wanted to sell anything, but times were tough, doubly so since Sylvie lost her job. Somebody had to pay the bills and to start, the junk insurance offered a rookie stipend for the first two months—$300 a week in times of need was nothing to moan about. And at least there was a script, so he didn’t have to think it through. In fact, selling junk was best done with the grey meat set to snooze.

“My dad’s in the barn doing the feeding, sir,” the boy said.

“You think I might meet him? I’ve got something he’ll want to see.”

“I don’t know. Dad’s mighty irritable about people bugging him.”

Me too, kid, me too. But I’m stuck and I’m fucked and if I don’t start selling these policies, I’ll lose my stipend and the hydro guys will cut the power. “I can understand that, but your father cares about his farm and his family, right? Of course he does. He’ll want to have a listen to what I say.” Unless he’s got half a brain. If he’s got any wits, he’ll smell the shit stench of CCI policies and kick me off his property faster than you can say yee haw, ride ‘em cowboy.

“Oh, all right, but you better tell him you made me.”

You smell it too, don’t ya? Sure, everybody with a nose smells this kind of stink. “So, where’s your mother?”

“Mother’s gone.”

Dead, left for greener grass, at church? “And what grade are you in, boy?”

“Eighth. Dad never went to school, but he says I have to get an education.”

There was promise in the fact dear old daddy skipped a proper training.

“Education is important, more important today than ever.”

“Dad isn’t stupid, he says he’s self-educated. See he had to take over this farm because my grandfather lost his marbles and killed my grandmother and four of my cousins. Had to shoot him down. Dad says Granddad might’ve been off, but he started a change for the better. Dad took over the farm when he was still young, but he’s smart. No, Mister, don’t get it crooked, Dad isn’t stupid, Dad’s real smart. Smartest one ever come outta our family”

“Geez, killed your grandmother and some cousins? That’s something.”

“Sure is. Sometimes it’s hard being related, but Dad says it’s important to do your own thing even if everyone else thinks you ought to be acting a different way.”

A rough dog joined alongside the insurance peddler and the boy.

“Hey, fella.” Shane leaned down to pet the dog.

“Dad’s in there,” the boy pointed at the barn door, “and if he gets uppity, maybe just leave, don’t push him.”

Shane smiled weakly as the boy held open a steel door. The scent of pig manure pounded through and knocked tears from Shane’s eyes. “Holy crow, that’s a stink.”

“Barn pigs stink the worst, but you get used to it. I wish they’d figure out the toilet.”

Shane Whimmer smiled imagining a piggy on the can as he stepped inside the dark barn. He paused to let his senses adjust. There was a constant rumble of snorting, on top of the putrid stink. The boy took the lead once again.

“Might have to spray off your shoes once you’re done, they’re pretty dusty anyway.”

The dust really clung to the polish. Shane hadn’t thought it was so obvious, but the boy noticed, didn’t you, boy? If I ever sell one of these policies, I’ll buy myself a half-decent pair of shoes from the Goodwill, if things really turn, maybe even Walmart.

“Dad?” the boy called out. Shane stared down at the fat pink beasts, all eager, greedily sniffing for more. “Dad?”

“Over here!” The voice was deep, coming from within a pen.

Shane saw a filthy man, burly and hairy. A baseball cap like his son, but he wore overalls instead of shorts. Like his son, he was shirtless, lots of flab, and like his son, he had a big, fat head.

“This guy here said he has something you have to see. He made me bring him out.”

“His funeral. Run along. Take a lasagna from the freezer, would ya?”

The man approached through the muck, nudging the pink beasts out of the way.

My funeral, Shane thought as the boy walked away. The approaching man’s smile settled the trepidation.

The man hopped with a squishy thud over the short feeder fence. His overalls cut off at about the knees, an inch above his rubber boots. He carried the shaft of a hockey stick, the blade sawed off.

Shane held out his hand. “Shane Whimmer’s the name, insurance is my game. A nice setup you have here.”

The man showed two filthy palms and Shane stowed the second unused handshake away for later.

“I’m Henry Tugnutt, but I’ll tell ya, I got lots of insurance, damn close to insurance poor.”

“I hear that all the time and trust me, I can relate. You’re going to want to listen because not having the right insurance can cost heads and tails more than these small monthly fees. Concerted Community offers the three coverages that hit home and really help when you need it most.” In a swoop, Shane dropped his briefcase and pulled a leather binder from within. He flipped to a bookmarked page. “What do you think would happen to your son if you suffered a horrid accident here on the farm or out at play? Like you, I’m a private contractor, I don’t have employment insurance coverage and something like that could stagger your whole operation.

“Coverage for when you need it most, that’s what this is. I think we both know what would happen in the event of an injury, the bills would…” The man wasn’t listening and Shane needed his attention or he was just flapping his tongue and there were nicer places to waste time. “Mr. Tugnutt, Henry, are you following?”

Henry’s blank gaze slid back into view. “Insurance you say? Is that what you told my wife? Is that what you said before you did what you did?”

“Excuse me?” Shane saw Henry’s eyes sink back into his head. Something was wrong with this man. Shane dropped the binder into his briefcase. “Thank you for your time!” Shane took a step back toward the door, turned, took a second step, and then tripped.

Henry Tugnutt’s stick shaft had found its way between his feet.

“I ain’t done with you. Like you wasn’t done with her ‘til you licked your fingers clean!” Henry swung the stick like a bat and the shit-coated tip smacked across Shane’s cheek.

Shane rubbed the cut flesh. “What in the hell are you talking about? I didn’t do nothing. I don’t know your wife! I came out—” Another swipe cut Shane’s argument short, bursting his lip.

“That stink’ll get them piggies right hungry, they the stupid kind,” Henry said.

Shane looked to his side through the rusty steel guards caked in manure. There were dozens of hungry porkers looking to munch. Henry back swung and Shane kicked out one of his ruddy loafers. He caught Henry square in the jewels.

“You bugger,” Henry wheezed and took a knee.

The door was 50 feet behind him and he knew if he could get to the light of day, he’d be safe as an altar boy come Monday morning. This Henry Tugnutt was obviously as crazy as his father before him.

Up. There was a slick scramble, Shane felt a meaty paw clench on his foot, but freed himself with a donkey kick at Henry’s upper half, scoring a headshot. The pigs sensed something and activity bloomed in the shitty pens. Hunger, never-ending hunger.

“Crazy, the whole works!” Shane shouted over his shoulder to where Henry Tugnutt had been, but the man wasn’t there anymore. “Shit.” Shane opened the door.

Gravel and dust clung to the pig pies riding his feet and legs. In the bright yard there was no sign of father or son.

If I do see the boy I’ll tell him, goddammit, I will tell him!

He pulled on the driver’s door handle and for a second, he thought he’d locked himself out when the door didn’t open. No, it wasn’t that, only another thing a few extra bucks might fix. Nothing lasts anymore.

The door creaked open, and then slammed closed after being thumped. The stupid mutt whimpered and growled, frothing at the mouth, bloodied where he smashed his skull against the car.

The dog found its footing and resumed its mad promenade.

“Good doggy, good doggy,” Shane whispered, backing up to the trunk.

The plan was to get in the front passenger’s side door. For the safety of the girls, the child locks didn’t disengage in the rear unless he hit the unlock button on the fob twice. The fob dangled from the key and the key remained in the ignition.

Somehow, the small act of walking around back confused the dog and he cocked his head. Pink foam dripped as blood and craziness mingled about his jaws. Once to the trunk, Shane ran to the shotgun door, swung it open and heard a crack. The back passenger’s window shattered.

“Holy shit!” Shane jumped through the open door. He shimmied in behind the wheel.

Nose pointed in the lane, toward the house—there would be trouble yet. A shot came from somewhere behind him. He looked in the rearview, his eyes passing over his reflection, no longer worried about a sale.

Another shot rattled the car. He lay flat on the seat and reached for the key. The engine caught and another round rocked and pinged, a stream of light poured through the vinyl door interior. With his left hand, Shane tugged the shifter into drive and with his right, he pushed down on the accelerator.

Rocketing up the farm path was the only choice.

Could’ve gone in reverse, dumbass.

Too late for could haves, the front bumper smashed through a steel gate and the sound gave Shane reason to punch the brake pedal. Another shot rang through the air but missed the car. Shane slid around the seat, popped up, and drank in the scene. The gate he had opened revealed a path that wound behind the barn and silos. Another shot.

“You missed, shithead!”

A bang and a smash, his rear window shattered. He stamped the accelerator and followed the path. Out of the ditch the boy leapt, waving his arms.

“Please mister, you got to help me!”

Well, shit, kid. Shane veered from the path and clunked the undercarriage of his car on an unlucky stone.

“You should a listened! I told ya, he don’t like people bugging him. You got to take me with you; I don’t want to be a farmer, and I don’t want to become like my dad and my granddad, and I especially don’t want to end up like my mom,” the kid spoke through a broken window.

There was another shot, Shane attempted to back up, but the car stalled, only two wheels still on the ground.

“Find me a ride and I’ll get you out of here.” Shane kicked open the dented door.

The dog barked and another shot echoed over the yard.

“Follow me. We got the others’ cars back here.” The boy darted around the barn.

Others, what others?

Shane followed. They cleared a corner and came to a fenced area with a shit floor.

“Oh my god,” Shane mumbled. A sea of cars and trucks. “The others, like—” There were pizza delivery signs, insurance bumper stickers, mutual fund emblems, a pink Mary Kay Cadillac Escalade, and more.

“Feed got too expensive. Dad says it’s okay to feed salespeople to the stupid pigs because most of them are bad for selling junk.”

“Your father accused me of doing something to your mother.” Shane climbed the fence.

“He’ll do that. Get in,” the boy said.

He’d chosen a rusty GM truck.

If I’m going to die, why not die in style? Can’t trust this boy, like father like son and so on.

“No, we’ll take the Caddy.”

The kid shrugged and followed Shane to the gaudy, pink gas-guzzler. The dog yipped and leapt over the fence, kamikaze nose-diving under the wheel of the machine as Shane turned the key, pulled the shifter, and rolled forward. A squeak like a rubber ducky filled the air.

“Wooty,” the boy said, sadly.

“Dog was fucking rabid as your daddy.”

The pink Cadillac punched a hole through the fence and wheeled back onto the trail. The short-term plan involved racing past any shotgun blasts and heading out the laneway, hopefully in one piece. The long-term plan involved bringing the wrath of the law down on this operation.

“Just a dog, mister.”

“Crazy mutt tried to eat me!”

“Nah, not crazy. Listens to Dad real good.”

And how well do you listen?

Shane steered the machine up and around the barn, shots started to pelt the massive steel body. It wasn’t a shotgun, something smaller and faster. Shane put his head down as well as his foot.

“Ugh, oh mister,” the boy moaned.

The Cadillac thumped over something. The vehicle tilted and grinded. He looked at the boy. Blood spurted from his chest. Shane slammed on the brakes and reached over to the fleshy hole. Torn between self-preservation and nursing the boy.

“Don’t you die, don’t you—” Shane started and stopped.

The hole was real, but when he really looked at the boy, his expression hid behind a layer of something like rubber, but better. Shane put his hand on the boy’s cheek, cold.

“You…smell…good,” the boy whispered and then snorted.

It was a suit. A suit of flesh. He tugged at the boy’s jaw and the flesh tore, came away. Gape-mouthed, Shane stared at the thing in his hands.

Emptied a face and wore it, kept the skull and jaw, and—

The thought died when he looked up at the pig head riding atop the boy’s shoulders.

“No! No!” Shane kicked open the driver’s door. He hopped down and stomped toward the road.

“Stop right there!”

Shane did.

“I’m losing it. This is stress. This kind of thing is impossible, pigs are pigs and people are people.” His cellphone vibrated in his pocket, distracting his wrought and bungled mind. He reached into his pants. The vibration ceased and he let go.

“Pigs are pigs, you’re right about that, but people aren’t people, people are food. Been the other way ‘round about long enough. Bacon for breakfast was one thing, but bacon doughnuts and bacon milkshakes and bacon yogurt, your bunch crossed a line. You shouldn’t a ate my wife! I ain’t going out like the rest!”

Shane turned around and looked at Henry. The man-mask was gone. He had a round pig’s head. It was almost funny. Something snapped inside. It was all a joke, obviously it was. Losing his good job, Sylvia losing her job, him going to that seminar, finding his way to the farm where he tried to sell insurance to pigs that dressed as people. It was one of those big, shitty, cosmic jokes.

“You ain’t getting me too! Ain’t no bacon!”

“Sounds like you could use some coverage against that. We have policies for every kind of potential catastrophe.” The phone in Shane’s pocket beeped a message as he spoke. “I’ve got the coverage you need, Mr. Tugnutt. By god, I do!”

Henry Tugnutt snorted and lifted a pistol to aim at Shane Whimmer, man chops on the mind. A slug-like tongue reached out beneath the squat pink snout.

“Trust me, Mr. Tugnutt, you’re gonna want to hear all about this. This stuff is the good stuff. Covers ya when you need it most.”

Tugnutt squealed.

—

Sylvia had to call Shane right away and tell him, tell him he could leave that stinking job.

“Honey,” she said to the message service, “I got it! The job at the clinic, full-time, twenty an hour. You can quit selling that bullshit insurance and come home!”

XX