I met Skunkpig while hiking through the Superstition mountains. Racing the sun to the trailhead before dusk, I heard what I thought was drums and chanting on the wind. I stopped to listen. I'm pretty sure they were going to eat me, but I had water and a field recorder I told them I was interesting using to record their songs.
Whether Skunkpig is the name of their leader or the entire tribe, it's never clear. They all refer to themselves as Skunkpig, but the leader I suspect to be Skunkpig is the only one who ever uses "I," and the lesser tribesmen orbit the great creature like asteroid rings. How many are there? Enough it seems.
Skunkpig eat whatever they can find, but primarily hunt lost hikers. They often toy with people shooting old refrigerators and couches out in the desert. Quietly removing vital car parts, then watching them from afar as they wonder what to shoot to save themselves as the heat does its grim work. They make jewelry, tools, and knives from the guns. They say they have no use for them. They let the sun bring their prey to a useless weakened stupor and pluck whatever they clutch from their tired hands, stepping back before the prey's last gasp so their dry, red-eyes can see their hunter stand before it "stains the sand." People the tribe find shooting cactus are made to drink the acidic water of the barrel cactus until their organs revolt.
They have no gods, but they hold sacred the Gila monster for its unyielding bite, the roadrunner for its brazen brutality, the cactus for its efficiency and its fruit, and the night. They respect the sun.
This is the first recording I made of Skunkpig, doing the hunt song "Gila Monster Blood" I've promised to record more of them in exchange for safe passage in their lands.
