“The cask of pepperoni” by Edgar Alien Tomlinpoe.
A succession of loud and shrill oinks, bursting suddenly from the throat of the corpulent form, seemed to thrust me violently back. For a brief moment I hesitated, I trembled. Unsheathing my rapier, I began to grope with it about the recess; but the thought of an instant reassured me. I placed my hand upon the solid fabric of the hovel and felt satisfied. I reapproached the wall; I replied to the squeals of him who clamoured. I re-echoed, I aided, I surpassed them in volume and in strength. I did this, and the oinker grew still.
It was now midnight, and my task was drawing to a close. I had completed the eighth, the ninth and the tenth tier. I had finished a portion of the last and the eleventh; there remained but a single stone to be fitted and plastered in. I struggled with its weight; I placed it partially in its destined position. But now there came from out the niche a low laugh that erected the hairs upon my head. It was succeeded by a sad voice, which I had difficulty in recognizing as that of the stout Patruchio. The voice said--
"You're going to prison, stalker. You are mentally ill, child."
"The Pepperoni!" I said.
"Yes, child, you thought that was funny, didn't you? But is it not getting late? Will not I be enjooooying what happens to you next, Dan and Boomia and the rest?"
"Yes," I said, "you're not getting out of here until you pay Quasi!"
"I don't owe Quasi a penny, child!"
"Yes," I said, "for the love of Norm!"
