On the third Saturday in June, around three in the afternoon, Clemmy Sue Jarvis sits on her front porch swing, sipping ice tea. As she ponders the clever ruse, she has planned for this evening she also watches a slow-moving storm system as it approaches from the Northeast. It would be a welcomed sight if the rural southern town of Wrongberight were in the midst of a draught, however it wasn’t. For the past four days, intermittent rainstorms have inundated the town with gooey mud, which the pigs take pleasure wallowing in and stagnant pools of water that the, misquotes have claimed squatters rights to. Her sixty plus years, of experience told her that the advancing storm would play havoc on Wrongberight within three or four hours. After sizing
