The van drives away, while you crawl about in the muck of the pigpen inside of it. The smell and general atmosphere overwhelms your senses. The other pigs squeal and snort in a mixture of human panic and animal instict.
The van eventually stops and the back opens, and you cautiouslly follow your fellow swine down the wooden ramp and out into the open.
"Ah, here he is!" A man in overalls approaches you, noticing the marking. "Yep, Zeb was right, you're a prize pig. You're going to be the prize at the state fair little piggy!" He laughs.
You begin to panic. Prize? What does that mean?