I take a long drag from my cigarette as I stare out of my foxhole, hollow eyed at the treeline. The distant sounds of oinking coming nearer and nearer as the sun sets. The cold steel of my AR-15 the only thing that stands between those hogs and my kids behind me.

A smell of pig shit wafts on the breeze as I load the 5.56mm into my magazines. Claymores line forward positions, ready for those pink bastards come at me. As the sun goes down the oinking comes closer, trees rustling in the summer heat. A flare goes up, and my blood runs cold.

30-50 screaming VietHogs rush my position blowing those damn whistles and making an ungodly racket. I unload magazine and magazine as little Suzy mans the Ma Deuce. Hot casing fill our foxholes as little Johnny calls in fast movers to nape the treeline. Still, they don't stop.

The pigs just keep on coming as I am forced to use my bayonet on the slippery hams. Little Suzy is hit and dragged off as Johnny calls a broken arrow, Huey's rain rocket fire all around us as A-4s drop 500lb bombs. I don't know how long we fought, but it seemed like an eternity.

As the sun rose and exposed the dead and dying bodies of dozens of feral hogs, I gathered my family and readied for another night of hell. My gun and me the only thing standing in the way of those twisty tailed beasts.

Because pest control...

Pest control never changes.