Get out of my way, bitches.

Y’all have had your fun, but this here is big-tusk Johnny, and y’all better recognize. I ain’t just passin’ through, I’m PASSIN’ THROUGH — and any you tubey-headed interlopers even TRY to get all up in my business whislt I’m getting all up in whatever business I’m choosin’ to get up in — and no, I will not tell you what it is, because it is my business — well, try that, and you’re gettin’ yourself a face full’a my FACE.

Let big-tusk Johnny tell you, you think you know annihilation? You don’t know annihilation. We’re talking tusks of above-average size — like BLADES, motherfucker, like BLADES — and I know that’s not something you can handle. So. Step. Back.

That’s right, the-pig man is comin’ through, and y’all better get clear — or levitate or scuttle or whatever you gray-faced sops do in whatever po-dunk hole you come from. No I don’t give half a whack. You don’t know me! Don’t talk to me like you know me!

You even look at me funny, you’re gonna find out why all your spawn got snouts and cloven hooves. You best bring me some room service to my Awakening Zone. Looks like Big Daddy Pig here’s gonna have a Growth Spasm.

Hey Emrakul, I porked your mom! And after I cast her, I took an extra turn!

You think I ain’t seen an 11/11 before or whatever the fuck? Elzdrazi, please. You punks were suckin’ your thumbs in your hedrons when I was pullin’ Lorthos out of Ula’s temple, taking his lunch mana, tentacle smacking his big blue face, making him tap himself in front of his buddies and letting him off with a warning. All you giant tentacle monsters are the same — back-tapping, down-low, legendary mulligan punks.

The only reason you’re even an inconvenience to me is because ripping on you gives me something to do between farts.

Now, get out of my way bitches. There’s a real pig coming through, and he’s bashing for three while you’re wetting your 8-mana underpants or whatever the fuck.

Oh, sorry there Mr. Magmaw, didn’t see you. Yeah, no, I’m fine. Just staying over here. Lovely weather we’re having. Yeah, you too. Thanks, I will. Much obliged.

(This article is a follow-up to Primordial Evil Scared of Pig with Teeth)

Onlookers described the pig alternately as “kind of scary,” “enthusiastic,” “red,” “about this big or so,” “awfully silly looking,” and “between a 3.0 and a 3.5 in limited.” Passers-by indicated an unwillingness to deal with the pig, which has continued to romp unimpeded through Kazuul, Turntimber and a series of gated residential communities.

“I ain’t touching that thing,” said local filler Guardian Zendikon. “Have you seen the size of the teeth on it? They must be 11 or 12 inches long! I may be 10 feet tall. I may be 200 feet tall. Without a guy walking next to me or some birds, it’s hard to tell sometimes, even when I’m all faded and in the distance. But I still ain’t blocking a pig with teeth.”

“And it makes the crazy eyes at you!” added the defender. “The Crazy Eyes!”

“Emrakul has shown some emotional imbalance in the past,” said notable Eldrazi psychologist Sarkhan the $70-an-Hour. “He seemed to take the scorn from that aether-lich pretty hard. He has shown an irrational fear of Zulaport or some of the black surrakar neighborhoods that I had previously attributed to racism. And he speaks mysteriously about dreams of being unable to stop something called ‘The Seeker.’

Emrakul’s opinion on the matter has been difficult to discern. So far, none of Zendikar’s hard-working multiethnic press corps has been able to get close enough to score an interview.

“The thing about this ‘pig with teeth’ phenomenon that astounds me the most,” said Theodore Silk, a PhD biologist at The Oran-Rief University, “Is that there is nothing unusual about this red pig. You see, laymen may not think this on a day-to-day basis, but all pigs have teeth. Tusks are just big teeth. All tusks are similar to blades in one way or another. And Emrakul has shown little hesitance annihilating as many as six fireboars at once.”

Added Silk, “And those pigs are on fire! All the time!”

“In this post-Eldrazi world, it makes sense for even the largest and most fearsome among us to treat even small threats seriously,” said Department of Homeland Security Secretary Havington Schnatz. “But Emrakul could never have terror target status.”

“I think he’s just intimidated,” said a local mindsculptor who spoke on the condition of anonymity. “You know what they say about pigs with big tusks. All those tentacles must be compensating for something.”

You may lock me up in Zendikar
With hedrons and Ugin’s Eyes
You may have your land-themed block,
But when all is dust, I rise.

Does my casting cost upset you,
Clutching blades or seals of doom?
‘Cause I walk with the girth and heft
Of every fatty boom-boom?

Just like auto insurance premiums
When car with car collides,
Like a credit card’s annual fee,
Still I rise.

Did you want me unplayable?
In a shoebox, hid from human eyes?
With day eaters and wurms autochthon
To hear my soulful cries?

Does my ETB scare you?
Are you pained to hear the talk,
Of four cards drawn, a 187
Or a fifteen power time walk?

You may tap your collared sparkmage,
You may cut me from your 60,
You may kill me with the legend rule,
But still, like bread, I rise.

Does my sexiness upset you?
Do my tentacles surprise?
‘Cause I get tapped like a pin-up girl
By a million Japanese guys?

Up from a polymorphed plant token,
I rise,
Up from Makeshift Mannequin in response,
I rise,
I’m a late game control mirror topdeck,
Cast hard — improbable, like a clear-skied thunderclap,
Crashing MODO with a torrent of redacted f-bombs.
I rise,
To an environment tailored to make me plausible,
I rise,
Like a heaping cone of mispronounced gelati,
I am the dream and the hope of the fatty.
I rise,
I rise,
I rise. And Still I rise.

If successful, Lord Karrthus would come into play, assume sole control of all dragons, and untap them with state resources. The plan does not require the consent of the dragons, and, upon execution, would be permanent. Current dragonholders would be wiped out.

“We know this will take massive resources and has a low probability of success,” said Karrthus during a recent whistle-stop tour of five mountains, a scrubland and the City of Brass. “But these dragons represent an unacceptable systemic risk that only the government can properly untap and administer.”

When asked whether the Karrthus administration would put restrictions on the dragons to prevent them from continued ravaging, Jund Press Secretary Flameblast Dragon said, “All dragons are on the table at this point.”

It is by far the most expensive and broad dragon nationalization on record, although Karrthus has been quick to point out that dragon seizures are fairly common during periods of interplanar conflict. Previous plans, however, tended to take place at half the cost, in one color, with broad legislative support, and with counter backup.

Even in those cases, the plans were unpopular, and this one is not without its detractors.

A coalition against the nationalization, led by former Nicol Bolas minion Malfegor, has mobilized in protest. In support of the effort Malfegor is, through a third-party vendor, selling limited-edition posters of Lord Kathara teabagging him.

“We’re not sure he knows what he means,” said one zombie on the condition of anonymity, “but we’re willing to humor him if puts that uppity Jundie in his place.”

A press release from Malfegor’s staff office read, “This is more tap-and-spend from a government that has run out of ideas. We’ve all heard of big plans like this before, but how many of those plans ever resolved? All our swamps are still tapped from the Debtors’ Knell he tried to play last turn, and we’re not seeing that anytime soon. A DRAGON WILL NOT BE RULED!”

When asked about Malfegor, Karrthus remarked, “Of course dragons can be ruled. That’s the basis for the entire dragon system of government. As Mr. Malfeagor knows all too well, there is always a greater power.”

“Also, you can do pretty much anything for seven mana.”

Karrthus confirmed that, barring counters, the action would be completed with haste.

I hope this letter reaches you. I have paid the messenger the last of my cigarettes and several other things I dare not mention, in the hopes that my words might find your eyes. I fear my own may never gaze into them again.

What you suspected is true, and I am deeply sorry for doubting you — this camp is little more than a slaughterhouse. They have cast us into a pit, they battled us against each other for their amusement, and they have made it known that only half of those who remain will make it out alive.

We are so young — each of us is only 15. We have done everything they asked of us. And I have seen them, one by one or in clusters, all the others, gone, dead, drifting to the earth like cherry blossoms. They bring in fresh meat all the time, and they churn through it at a terrifying rate — I’ve seen hundreds, thousands of faces come and go — mauled and twisted, pressed into servitude, and, finally, cast aside.

A group of us had made a pact to hang together, to survive. The Evercore. We joked we would drink whiskey at the launch of 20th edition. Sixteen of us have made it this long, and we thought we were safe.

But they have made their intentions clear mother. Nothing is safe here. Not Scathe Zombies. Not Regeneration. Not even your face.

They shot Goblin King yesterday. They just dragged him — the King! — out in the street like a stray dog and put a bullet in the back of his head. They left him in the dirt with his crown over his broken nose to rot and be eaten by vermin. I’ve seen it many times, and I had even become used to it, but I feel a new dread. The dread I first felt when I saw Sedge Troll lying facedown in the mud. We had all joked about how he was invincible. When I saw him there, I thought, “This is my year — this is the year I go.”

Life has been hard since then, but there was a natural rhythm to it. I am beaten and broken (well, not broken. I was never broken. I have seen others here broken — they’d always vanish shortly after — but not me.) by the other prisoners on a daily basis. Every year I’m further outclassed and humiliated. Every two years, I’m reprinted anyway. You know I am tough. You know, no matter how bad things get, I attack for two.

The stories have helped, too. Telling all the little bears — so many bears, mother! — about when the King wore Gauntlets of Might, and he used to show us the calluses on his knuckles from it. He used to thump against the cinderblock wall of our cell and joke about playing the war drums, and I’d tell stories about Granite Gargoyle and Grey Ogre splitting up and crossing the Raging River, about the time we all climbed on the wall to dodge the Chaos Orb, or about the time Thicket Basilisk proved he was better than Cockatrice.

They’re just stories now, and when I go, they will be lost. Just like all the other bears that came before me. I guess I should be grateful. Most of those other bears didn’t get reprinted once.

I should feel glad of my long life, but I’m not. I wanted to be Evercore. I wanted these days, grim as they are, to last forever.

People tell me to trust in God, but even that seems hopeless. They’ve pulled him out of bed now, and they’re trying to shove him in a van.

You were always good to me. I am sorry I will never return to your hand again.

Love,

Grizzly Bears