"So Lucy got me this book, right?" Zeke said.
"Right," Ugly Jack said.
"An' it's about this French bloke called 'Sarder' or summin'."
"Sure, yeah. Now, I read meself a couple o' pages, right?"
"An' this geezer's got 'is knickers all in a twist about wot defines summin', and like, 'ow if it ain't in the plan, it ain't real, right?"
"An' 'e keeps goin' on an' on about existentianism an-"
"Right, just that."
"About bloody time," Zeke said. "You drive like me mum, swear to God."
He stepped out of the car and stretched. It was almost noon, and the sun shone brightly on the old, red farmhouse. He took a deep breath and abruptly started coughing.
"Whew! Wot a bloody stench!" he said. He waved a hand in front of his face, and made a face that left no secret as to what he though of the odour that wafted over them.
Ugly Jack pulled on a pair of heavy, black gloves and popped open the trunk.
"Here," he said, and threw a similar pair of gloves to Zeke.
"So anyway," Zeke said, as he and Ugly Jack gazed down at the body in the trunk. "This Sawder bloke was awarded the Nobel Prize fer something or other, but - you grab 'im by the legs, I'll take the arms - 'e flat out refused it! Bloody frenchies, I tells ya."
They started across the yard, hauling the body between them.
"An' this bloke got so obsessed with all this thinkin' and philosophasin' that 'e ended up getting all smacked out on drugs, jus' so 'e could keep thinkin' and philosophasin' 24 hours a day! I tells ya, Jackie-boy, those frenchies are bonkers."
"Right bonkers," Ugly Jack said.
They rounded a corner and the pigsty came into view, a dousin pigs snorting or sleeping in the muddy pen. With a heave, they threw the body over the fence and next to pigs. Zeke pulled off his gloves and threw them next to the body.
"So these pigs'll eat anything, right?" said Zeke, walking back towards the car.
"I'm driving back," Zeke said as Ugly Jack closed the trunk. "Maybe we'll be back in time for tea."