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Pig Heads: Extra Cuts
Peter Crimth is a killer, and undisclosed disposal of the bodies is paramount. In a small California town, secrets can become urban legends, and Jimmie Pratt, a local pig farmer, keeps the darkest of them. The local Sheriff, Kenneth Burgrin, has little expectations and likes it that way. Knowing more about Jimmie than he would like, he soon learns monsters come in different shapes and sizes.
204 pages, Kindle Edition
Published June 7, 2023
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Displaying 1 - 2 of 2 reviews
December 1, 2025
Pig Heads comes at you like a rusty cleaver in a dark barn—slow, menacing, and with a quiet promise that things are about to get real ugly. Daegal doesn’t waste time dressing the story in polite society; he drags you straight into the grime of small-town California, where secrets don’t stay buried so much as they rot in plain sight.
Peter Crimth is already a killer when the curtain rises—no mystery, no coy buildup. The real tension is in the aftermath, the disposal, the “please don’t let anyone find this” logistics that would make even the most seasoned risk manager break into a cold sweat. And in this town, where everyone knows everyone and nobody knows nearly enough, the wrong whisper can blossom into an urban legend overnight.
Enter Jimmie Pratt, the pig farmer with a smile that never reaches his eyes. He’s the keeper of the darkest local lore, the guy you don’t ask too many questions about because you’re not ready to hear the answers. He’s not a caricatured villain—he’s something worse: a man who learned long ago how to weaponize silence. You feel him looming even when he’s not on the page, like a KPI of dread steadily rising in the background.
And then there’s Sheriff Kenneth Burgrin, a man who built a cozy little career on low expectations. He’s content to keep his head down, shuffle the papers, and maintain the illusion of order in a town that runs on denial and cheap coffee. But he knows too much about Jimmie—and not nearly enough. When the pieces start moving and the shadows grow teeth, Burgrin realizes monsters aren’t always hiding under the bed. Sometimes they’re leaning against a fence, tipping their hat, calling you “neighbor.”
Daegal excels at the slow-burn creep. The horror isn’t loud—it’s insidious. It’s in the way the town looks the other way. The way cruelty blends into routine. The way Pig Heads becomes less about one murderer… and more about the ecosystem that quietly allows monsters to thrive.
This book doesn’t ask whether evil exists. It asks what shape it takes. And the answer isn’t comforting.
If you’re craving a lean, mean psychological meat-grinder—a story soaked in tension, moral decay, and the unsettling truth that the most dangerous predators often walk on two legs—Pig Heads is absolutely your next read. It’s sharp, grim, and disturbingly human.
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Peter Crimth is already a killer when the curtain rises—no mystery, no coy buildup. The real tension is in the aftermath, the disposal, the “please don’t let anyone find this” logistics that would make even the most seasoned risk manager break into a cold sweat. And in this town, where everyone knows everyone and nobody knows nearly enough, the wrong whisper can blossom into an urban legend overnight.
Enter Jimmie Pratt, the pig farmer with a smile that never reaches his eyes. He’s the keeper of the darkest local lore, the guy you don’t ask too many questions about because you’re not ready to hear the answers. He’s not a caricatured villain—he’s something worse: a man who learned long ago how to weaponize silence. You feel him looming even when he’s not on the page, like a KPI of dread steadily rising in the background.
And then there’s Sheriff Kenneth Burgrin, a man who built a cozy little career on low expectations. He’s content to keep his head down, shuffle the papers, and maintain the illusion of order in a town that runs on denial and cheap coffee. But he knows too much about Jimmie—and not nearly enough. When the pieces start moving and the shadows grow teeth, Burgrin realizes monsters aren’t always hiding under the bed. Sometimes they’re leaning against a fence, tipping their hat, calling you “neighbor.”
Daegal excels at the slow-burn creep. The horror isn’t loud—it’s insidious. It’s in the way the town looks the other way. The way cruelty blends into routine. The way Pig Heads becomes less about one murderer… and more about the ecosystem that quietly allows monsters to thrive.
This book doesn’t ask whether evil exists. It asks what shape it takes. And the answer isn’t comforting.
If you’re craving a lean, mean psychological meat-grinder—a story soaked in tension, moral decay, and the unsettling truth that the most dangerous predators often walk on two legs—Pig Heads is absolutely your next read. It’s sharp, grim, and disturbingly human.
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July 25, 2023
An exciting and gruesome romp around a small town and a pig farm with a few twists along the way. Daegal isn't shy about spattering a little gore, but he weaves a compelling story of suspenseful dread. His characters are not typical heroes or villains, but complex, flawed humans with past baggage, which helps keep you guessing as to what they will do when faced with a killer beyond their worst expectations.
Displaying 1 - 2 of 2 reviews