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Sen. Lauch Faircloth officially became the boss of Washington a little over two months ago. The news came down that Congress had stripped control over nearly all municipal government functions away from the city’s elected representatives and handed control to a multimillionaire North Carolinian agribusinessman-turned-senator who chairs the Senate Appropriations subcommittee on the District.

People called it everything from a rape of democracy to a bitter necessity to the best deal the beleaguered city could get. But one implication was indisputable: The person who ruled D.C. would no longer be someone chosen by the people. For the time being, that person would be the mastermind behind the takeover legislation, North Carolina’s junior senator, Duncan McLauchlin Faircloth.

The recent emergence of House Appropriations D.C. subcommittee chair Rep. Charles Taylor (R-N.C.) as D.C.’s main antagonist has only cemented Faircloth’s hold on No. 1. When Taylor threatened massive cuts in the municipal budget, his senatorial counterpart was cast as the man in the white hat. The powerless city was suddenly citing Faircloth’s “restraint” as a central argument against Taylor’s plans—and the summer’s unpleasantness was all a distant memory.

But before the July putsch, Faircloth had taken to the nation’s capital with all the gusto of a warden overseeing inmates. From the minute he became chairman of the subcommittee on the District, Faircloth had let forth a steady stream of vitriol against Washington and its inhabitants.

“The District of Columbia does not belong to the people who happen to live within its boundaries,” he told the Washington Post way back in March, mincing no words about who was boss. He went on to say that “there are many privileges of living in the capital of the U.S. Voting for mayor simply won’t be one of them.”

And for his critics, Faircloth had a simple solution: “If that bothers you, then you need to move.”

One place you might not want to move is Faircloth’s hometown.

Solomon Velasquez died in an industrial meat-grinding machine at the Lundy Packing Co. in Clinton, N.C., on Aug. 20, 1996.

Some think the machine accidentally started while Velasquez, a migrant worker from Guatemala, was cleaning it; others surmise that he fell in while its blades were whirling. Either way, this much is clear: The 18-year-old died an unimaginably gruesome death. His body was chopped to bits, like so much low-grade sausage.

Clinton, the home of Lundy Packing and the epicenter of the Tarheel State’s booming pork industry, is a long way from the District of Columbia. But “Swine Alley,” a swath of eastern North Carolina where factory hog farming dominates the economy, has its own catalog of lives cut tragically short, infrastructures ruined, and decision-making hijacked by nefarious special interests. The two are also linked by something else: the ubiquitous presence of Lauch Faircloth, the boss of D.C. and a major stockholder in Lundy Packing.

In the District, Faircloth’s response to a city in crisis has been quick and public: He has stripped power from the locals, run roughshod over democratic rights, and lashed out against fraud, mismanagement, and the status quo.

In North Carolina, the senator has enormous power as well, but he plays a vastly different role. He is Boss Hog, a captain of the state’s fastest-growing industry, with $19 million invested in pork. As a businessman, Faircloth’s mission has been to turn 140,000 hogs a year into as much profit as possible, no matter how many workers, family farmers, or ecosystems get in the way. In the Senate, his goal has been equally clear: Boss Hog has done everything in his power to avoid the kind of federal oversight he has so gleefully visited on the District.

When you take a closer look, it’s easy to understand why. No one is quite sure how many pigs Boss Hog owns, but with his millions divided among a mind-boggling 40 different hog operations, an injury to the industry is an injury to Faircloth. And like the even wealthier kingpins who run North Carolina’s four dominant pork producers, he sees a threat to his economic well-being in everything from environmental protection to workplace safety regulation. (Faircloth’s office did not respond to several interview requests.)

In fact, the litany of D.C. dysfunction Boss Hog perpetually recites—a place incapable of policing itself, a place where citizens are put in harm’s way every single waking hour, a place where elites are unaccountable and government unapproachable—fits neatly in Swine Alley. In both places, the effect is the same: The little guy suffers while the powerful turn dysfunction into profit. Faircloth may be a relentless advocate of fundamental change in the District of Columbia, but when it comes to Swine Alley he defends a status quo that has enriched him and his friends to an extent that a mere pig farmer could only dream about.

The death of Solomon Velasquez, it turns out, is only one of the uglier externalities that stem from the myriad farms and factories associated with Boss Hog. From environmental pollution to workplace safety to straight-up conflict of interest, Faircloth as businessman-legislator slides from guarding the public interest to acting in a clear self-interest that would fit right in with his characterizations of Marion Barry’s D.C. The District of Columbia may have its problems, but Faircloth’s back yard is no place to throw a picnic:

Just a couple of years before Velasquez’s death, 53 workers at the same Lundy plant contracted brucellosis, a rare disease spread by contaminated hogs’ blood. In the wake of the sickness, North Carolina’s flimsy oversight mechanism creaked into action and fined the company a paltry $3,000, slightly more than the cost of a single sow. (The violations that led to Velasquez’s mutilation cost it $65,000.) According to local newspaper reports, the stricken employees even tried to get their senator-employer to intercede for them. Fat chance. When invited to visit the workers on one of his frequent trips home, Boss Hog refused and suggested that they all hoof it up to his senatorial office in Washington, where they could all get together with an administrative assistant, according to union sources.

One day in the summer of 1996, 250,000 pounds of potato byproducts used as feed on a Faircloth-owned factory farm in Sampson County spilled, according to press reports at the time. The resulting orange-tan blob oozed down the Great Coharie Creek, killing thousands of fish as it went. State regulators had earlier asked Faircloth to move the farm’s half-acre feed holding basins following a much larger fish kill on the theretofore pristine Black River. While he denied any connection to the Black River fish kill, Faircloth did apologize to his Great Coharie neighbors and paid a $48,442 fine. With almost comic understatement, he told the Charlotte Observer that the day of the spill had been “depressing.”

Last year, the Observer reported that one in 10 private wells in 14 Swine Alley counties was found by researchers to contain levels of nitrate, a byproduct of hog waste, that exceeded North Carolina drinking-water standards. The newspaper also reported that the North Carolina Environmental Defense Fund had estimated that hog farms spread 135 million pounds of harmful nutrients a year into rivers by air.

The past few years may have been tough ones in the District, but Swine Alley has been stressed in massive ways. In just six years, the state’s pig population has ballooned from 3.7 million to 9.5 million, in the process surpassing tobacco as North Carolina’s biggest agricultural commodity. Unlike tobacco’s, though, many of the industry’s deleterious health effects stay right at home. Eastern North Carolina, like D.C., has become a decidedly less pleasant place to live over the past decade.

Today, Sampson County is a great place to buy barbecue and an increasingly rotten place to throw one. Just as Washingtonians are tormented by poor services and pockmarked roads, Swine Alley locals must contend with polluted wells and plumes of sickening fecal odor. In fact, the place is getting so beaten up, it just might need a little federal intervention itself.

When he castigates the District, Boss Hog likes to present himself as some kind of hickory-smoked Mr. Smith Goes to Washington. His favorite refrain is that unlike most senators he has met a payroll, having done so, he wrote in the Washington Post, “every Friday for 40 years.”

But in reality, Faircloth is pretty far from the payroll-meeting end of the business. Hardly the down-home businessman, the senator knows more about portfolio diversification and corporate trusteeship than about providing wages. He is the richest member of North Carolina’s congressional delegation, worth an estimated $22 million in everything from banking to real estate to insurance, according to reports in North Carolina papers. Faircloth knows his way around boardrooms a lot better than around barnyards, a fact reflected over and over in his campaign finances.

Corporate allies and competitors alike subsidized Boss Hog’s senatorial campaign, supplying thousands and thousands of PAC dollars. According to documents produced by the Center for Responsive Politics, business interests provided all but a sliver of the $5.3 million the senator raised between 1991 and 1996

—and among the donors, agribusiness finished second only to the powerful financial sector.

Individual or corporate contributions came from heavies like Cargill Inc. ($5,000) and Carroll’s Foods ($4,300), as well from as trade groups like the North Carolina Pork Producers Association ($3,131), the American Meat Institute ($4,500), and the National Pork Producers Council, which subsidized Faircloth to the tune of nearly $10,000. The Sunday Star-News of Wilmington, N.C., aptly suggested that, “When Lauch Faircloth went to Washington as a senator from North Carolina, he didn’t leave the hog business. He became a lobbyist for it.”

It’s a job Boss Hog has proved very adept at. Long before discovering the political merits of beating up on D.C., he was carrying putrid water for the hog industry. Using the ’90s Republican rhetoric of “common sense,” Faircloth treats opposition to environmental regulations like some kind of sacred creed. Of course, it’s easy to get religion when you stand to make millions off your faith.

For instance, the senator has spent much of his first term trying to gut the Clean Water Act. A bill introduced by Faircloth in May 1995 sought to redefine wetlands in a way that would have reduced by 60 to 80 percent the amount of such territory under federal protection—thus allowing factory farms like his own to expand into all sorts of environmentally sensitive areas.

The bill would also have removed the Environmental Protection Agency’s say-so over what was a wetland and, at the local level, limited individual states’ abilities to regulate their wetlands. On top of that, it would have slashed maximum fines for polluters from $25,000 to a measly $1,000.

Michelle Nowlin of the Southern Environmental Law Center believes those efforts would have all but guaranteed more fish kills, polluted wells, and toxic runoff from Boss Hog and his friends. “It would’ve had a severe social, economic, and environmental impact in North Carolina,” says Nowlin.

The economic impact on the bill’s sponsor, on the other hand, would have been severely good. By tradition, most senators steer clear of their own financial interests. Not Faircloth. Though he personally stood to gain millions from an eviscerated Clean Water Act, the famously toothless Senate Ethics Committee reasoned that it would only be a conflict if the senator were the sole individual who stood to gain. Because slashing wetlands laws would also benefit North Carolina’s handful of other pork millionaires, along with other industrialists, Faircloth was in the clear. Papers across the state editorialized against him.

Faircloth has also worked against the Clean Air Act—work that would be a boon to the industry because one of the ways hog-waste pollution is spread is through waste sprayed on fields getting blown onto neighboring lands, and a boon to Faircloth because firms he owns have been listed as both “minor” and “major” air pollution sources.

In 1994, Boss Hog also introduced legislation to slash federal funds for citizens’ groups that monitor water pollution and other forms of pollution under the auspices of outfits like the Sierra Club. The same legislation would also have made it much harder for citizens to sue suspected polluters. The legislation would have wiped out two very important resources in low-regulation states like North Carolina, places where the invisible hand is about the only thing that stands between the environment and the men who want to use it to their own ends.

Of course, Faircloth’s home turf doesn’t seem like a place that needs to be saved from itself. At first glance, it looks a lot like the bucolic, just-folks countryside the senator evokes when he castigates the nation’s capital. As the road winds south and east across the creeks and swamps just off I-95, ramshackle Free Will Baptist churches compete with barbecue advertisements for the driver’s attention. Though the churches ultimately outnumber them, it is the billboards—”Barefoot Country Hams,” “Piggy Wiggly Market”—that hold the real mirror to Sampson County’s soul.

“You bet it’s from around here,” says Mildred, the cashier at Lewis’ Barbecue on the outskirts of Clinton, as she hands me $1.05 in change for the small barbecue with hush puppies that I just finished. The restaurant actually serves a whole variety of foods, but there’s really only one choice: Eastern-style barbecue, the pungent, vinegar-soaked product of the farms of Sampson County. It’s tasty as hell, as long as you don’t spend a lot of time dwelling on what took place to get the pig onto the bun.

At the restaurant, folks regard the local food with a craftsman’s sense of personal, local propriety. But Mildred’s T-shirt tells a different story: It bears the insignia of Carroll’s Foods, one of the nation’s largest agribusinesses. “My son works at one of their farms,” she explains. “Hog Farm No. 37.”

Farm No. 37 doesn’t have the same pastoral ring as Sunny Brook Farms. It’s the sort of name that would sound more at home on a collective farm outside Stalin-era Kiev than on the fertile soil of 1990s North Carolina. Along the region’s rural highways, few farms still have their own signs out front. The rest bear the logos of pork’s dominant players. The farmers’ names are still there, but they are in small print, at the bottom, under the insignias of the likes of Carroll’s, Prestage Farms, or Murphy Family Farms.

The smell of barbecue, in fact, may be the only remaining traditional thing about North Carolina’s hog industry. The past decade and a half raising hogs has changed from the small-scale province of family farmers into a huge, capital-intensive, vertically integrated industry dominated by a few mammoth agribusinesses. “It’s not farming,” explains Don Webb, who leads the Alliance for a Responsible Swine Industry.

Webb should know: A decade ago, his own mid-size farm did a pretty good business in swine, with around 300 sows. Now he’s out of the business and says independent farmers are unable to compete in a market whose giants own everything from feed production to slaughterhouses to distribution trademarks. “They want you to think it’s Old McDonald,” says Webb. “It’s not. It’s factory farming.”

Whatever it is, it’s booming. By 1996, North Carolina—long dwarfed by Midwestern agricultural giants—had rocketed to second in the nation in pork production. And it’s closing fast on national leader Iowa, where the pig population fell 3 percent last year. In Faircloth’s home county, pigs outnumber humans by around 34 to 1.

But oddly enough, as hogs take over every last inch of arable land in North Carolina, the hog farmers themselves have been sent to slaughter. The quantity of meat, the flow of dollars, and the pork lobby’s political power may have skyrocketed, but the state’s population of hog farmers has been in a free fall. There were nearly 24,000 hog farms in 1984; just 7,000 remained in the business last year. The family farms that for years fed the state, that created the culture of places like Sampson County, and that even today are sanctimoniously evoked whenever Faircloth wants to fend off pollution oversight, are mostly a memory.

“There’s very few little guys left anymore,” explains Gale Lewis, who also works with the Alliance for a Responsible Swine Industry. “Even though the number of hogs has tripled, the number of hog farms has dramatically declined.”

The verdant fields of eastern North Carolina offer little evidence of farmer or beast. Hog pens lie away from the road, low to the ground. Farmers—such as exist anymore—do, too. Such a place makes you feel as if you’ve wandered onto an empty Hollywood sound stage. You haven’t. It’s a 1990s industrial park that manufactures bacon.

“If you thought it looks like agriculture,” says North Carolina environmental lobbyist William Holman, “it really looks like a factory.” Indeed, the factory farms’ operations combine the gloom of Industrial Revolution sweatshops with the chemical certainty of modern science, and mix in a healthy dose of good old-fashioned slaughterhouse gore. Farmers-for-hire raise hogs in close confinement, supplying a precise mixture of feed that balloons the pigs to 250 pounds of pork during their 5-and-a-half-month lives. They are as much exploded as raised.

And like old-fashioned industrial workers, the farmers these days rarely even own their own hogs. Instead, they engage in what is politely called contract farming, but which a growing number of formerly middle-class North Carolina hog workers now recognize for what it is: sharecropping. They watch and raise hogs for the agribusinesses that own them, intermittently supplying the pigs with the agribusiness’s feed and ultimately funneling them to packing houses also controlled by agribusiness tycoons like Lauch Faircloth. In return they get an honest, meager existence that in one way parallels the lives of the livestock they oversee: They may be living and eating, but their destiny is beyond their control.

Boss Hog, on the other hand, is a man in control. By the time Faircloth gets his money out of hog farming, he’s far enough upwind that the stench and environmental degradation don’t touch him. He’s at the other end of the food chain, where dead pigs—and the occasional dead worker—mean steady dividends.

“He’s knee-deep in all of it,” says Lewis.

The death of the family farm and the rise of the pork oligopolists are just two of the byproducts of factory farming. There is also the pesky little question of pig shit. Hogs, to put it plainly, crap more than just about any other animal. They excrete two to five times as much waste as humans. A sizable farm can produce as much waste in a day as a city of 100,000 people. (Who says Boss Hog doesn’t have any experience running a city?)

Waste is supposed to fall through slats under the hogs’ confinement cells. From there, it gets conveyed by sewer into specially constructed lagoons. On smaller farms, Mother Nature’s efficiency is then harnessed: The waste is spread on fields and recycled. But on the mammoth factory farms controlled by Faircloth and the state’s other pork titans, there is more manure than there is land to spread it on. And rather than being spread, it is sprayed onto the fields—and wherever else the wind may carry it.

As hog farms expanded, neighbors quickly discovered that excess waste was seeping into streams, into ground water, and even into family wells. New “lagoons”—the polite term for multi-acre factory farm cesspools—were being built as near as 750 feet from people’s homes.

“We get 15,000, 20,000, 30,000 pigs in a spot,” says Lewis. “If you put that many people in confinement and dumped all their feces and urine in a yard, you’d have a problem, too.”

Activists like Don Webb have linked uncontrolled factory farming to Pfiesteria outbreaks akin to the one ravaging Maryland, an instance where environmentalists believe that the business interests of factory farming have caused a devastating statewide impact. Most of Maryland’s fisheries find themselves unable to market their product because of real or perceived risks to consumer health.

Clearly, the pig pen of Swine Alley is not your father’s hog farm. The pollutants emitted by the pork industry have impacts that are much more characteristic of a factory than a farm. “It’s an industry and should be treated as such,” says Gary Grant, an activist from Halifax County.

It may be easy to ignore the widespread environmental degradation and legislative chicanery that allow factory hog farming to proceed unabated. It’s harder to miss the smell. “Oh yeah, it stinks,” says Nate Furlow. Furlow works across from the Lundy plant in Clinton, but his sentiments are echoed by eastern North Carolina’s country folks and town dwellers alike. “Sometimes you can’t even open your door, it smells so bad,” says Furlow.

Outside Stantonsburg, Joan Randolph says she usually can’t even open her window because of the smell from an enormous neighboring hog farm. Much of D.C.’s black population came from this corner of North Carolina; Randolph lived in Washington for years herself. She looked forward to retiring to the countryside but now can’t leave her home whenever the farm is spraying its fields with its hogs’ feces.

According to Grant, 90 percent of big pork operations are in predominantly African-American communities. There are no hard data to back up his claim, but some locals have seen enough to convince themselves that African-Americans bear much of the brunt of factory farming. “If this don’t make you believe in environmental racism,” says Webb, “nothing will.”

Randolph recounts a day when she and others in her all-black neighborhood were having an outdoor barbecue. All of a sudden, the smell of hog waste wafted down the hill in its characteristic plumes. Randolph says they grabbed everything they could, but her trailer home was too small to hold everybody. “We had visitors from out of town once, and one of them vomited from the smell,” Randolph says. “It’s a sickening smell.”

Concerns over pollution and uncontrolled growth have kicked up a stink in North Carolina over the past few years. The Raleigh News & Observer won a Pultizer Prize for a five-part exposé on big pork that ran in 1995. In late August this year, Gov. Jim Hunt, ordinarily a close friend of the industry, heeded calls for a two-year moratorium on new hog farms. The state had finally recognized the mess in its own back yard.

That was too late for Allen Petway’s back yard. Ten years ago, Petway and his young wife bought a small house in Wilson County. Three years later, a big hog operation opened up right behind them. Over the past seven years, the Petways have gone through a cycle of polluted green water, sprayed industrial feces, and, of course, smell. Petway’s wife is pregnant and ill and was told by her doctor to walk every day. Now, she’s unable to walk outside near her home on many days.

When Petway called a state official, “he told me to go to a rec [center].” He shakes his head. “I hate to say this,” Petway says, “but I just don’t trust anyone from the government anymore.”

Maybe Faircloth has been a little too busy saving the District from itself to worry about the Petways’ quality of life. That’s what Don Webb thinks, anyway. The burly former farmer fashions himself Faircloth’s No. 1 enemy. “He should worry about North Carolina,” says Webb. “About all the people forced to smell feces and urine by him and his friends. Instead, he’s going on up there to nail Washington, D.C., because he don’t want to think about all the people suffering in his home state.”

Webb says he hopes environmental and clean-government votes will doom Boss Hog’s 1998 re-election campaign. “He’s a liberal when it comes to corporate welfare. He’s interested in Faircloth first, Faircloth and his profits….He wants to regulate the mayor and regulate the people of Washington, D.C., but he wants the hog industry to

go unregulated.”

Eastern North Carolina didn’t become Hog Heaven by accident. The transformation came about in no small part thanks to the dynamism of businessmen like Faircloth. While states like Iowa and Nebraska remained mired in old-fashioned ways of producing pork, what with their lingering reliance on family farmers and their intact regulatory mechanisms, Faircloth and his fellow Tarheel hog magnates apparently reasoned that their state’s low wages and weak oversight would mean millions in profits.

They were right, and the ensuing labor and environmental calamities have subsidized Faircloth’s rise to power. Now the man who brought the world Swine Alley has set his sights on the nation’s capital.

What will it mean if the Swine Alley model replaces the city Faircloth loves to bash? Well, even though Boss Hog sermonizes ad nauseam about D.C.’s crumbling schools, don’t count on a sudden flowering of scholarship: His native Sampson County’s public schools rank 84th out of 119 jurisdictions in the state in per-pupil expenditure. The average SAT score is 851, just five from the bottom in North Carolina. The national average is 1,013.

Of course, lousy public schools might be considered an asset in an economy dependent on gulling thousands into working long hours for puny wages. “They tell you this industry brings jobs, and we tell you it brings minimum-wage jobs,” says Gary Grant. “It’s nothing that serves to increase family income or quality of life.” Sampson County, which is 33 percent African-American, has a black poverty level of 35 percent, according to Grant. Census records indicate that the overall poverty level is 19.6 percent, not too far off D.C.’s 20.5 percent. The majority of the underpaid workers at plants like Lundy’s are black or Hispanic, according to activists familiar with the hog industry.

Those who have tried to counter the low wages by organizing into unions have met with massive resistance. Faircloth himself sponsored the National Right-to-Work Act, which would remake labor relations nationwide in the low-wage image of Dixie.

Indeed, Boss Hog credits North Carolina’s economic success to the absence of unions and likes to brag that his hard work has kept organized labor out of the state. When workers at Lundy were getting sick, Faircloth actually blamed the plant’s fledgling union for the brouhaha. “You are dealing with a mean union,” he told the Observer. “They have made ridiculous charges against the plant and held a lot of meetings to try to excite the employees.”

Sometimes synergy between Faircloth’s position in the Senate and his position in the food chain gets the best of him. In 1994, the senator, officially a budget hawk who is philosophically opposed to subsidies, signed a letter asking the Secretary of Agriculture to help North Carolina’s pork titans flog their wares in the former Soviet Union. The subsidy would have cost taxpayers $20 million and raised the supermarket price of pork in the U.S. Not insignificantly, it would also have made buckets of money for Faircloth himself. Boss Hog was later quoted in the News and Observer saying, “[O]n second thought, I probably should not have signed the letter.”

Then there’s I-73, a story that would make even the most jaded Barry-watcher blush. Faircloth sits on the Senate committee that is drawing the route for I-73, a new interstate. And it just so happens that at Boss Hog’s suggestion, they routed it past land owned by Jefferson-Pilot, an insurance firm in which the senator is a major holder of publicly as well as privately traded stock. No surprise to learn that the firm has been planning to put a shopping mall on that land, which would benefit massively from a highway adjoining it. Roll Call said Faircloth was “getting away with murder.”

In Sampson County, hog farm to the universe, it is possible to drive around for days without seeing a single hog. They are kept indoors, in huge enclosed pens that lie close to the earth. In their short lives, many hogs never once touch the ground, living every moment in the hidden pens of Swine Alley. Even their stench, so overpowering so much of the time, can hide out, laying low for a day or two until the right breeze comes along.

It’s an apt metaphor for the factory-hog-farming economy. While the profits and power of a handful of moguls make headlines, everything else—from the workers to the pollution to the doomed pigs themselves—is left in the shadows, unacknowledged, unwatched, unregulated.

But as I drive north and west out of Swine Alley, back toward I-95, the smell finally does hit me. I’ve stopped by the side of the road to look out at yet another neatly tended hog farm. In the distance is the farm’s covered blue pen, where hundreds of pigs are kept. Between us are the fields, sprayed with the hogs’ waste. A hint of a breeze sends a surprise my way. The smell is jagged and sickening, catching in my throat as I begin to cough.

I breathe in again, deeply, for the sake of journalistic observation, for the real Swine Alley experience. The stench has been described to me by people across the state for the past two days, but nothing any of them has said has prepared me. I wait one more second for full impact and then I pull my shirt to my mouth and get into the car. I roll up the windows, but that only traps the smell. Half a mile later, I roll them down. As I floor the gas, the car clears out; I’m heading home, away from the hogs.

What I smell, though, isn’t just hogs. It’s pigs of a different sort, living large in their own nicely appointed pens. And it is, ultimately, the smell of someone willing to upend democracy and bash the locals far away while making a killing thanks to the absence of oversight at home.

“What has he done to help people who cry sometimes because it smells?” asks Webb. “Who vomit when they go outside? Who can’t cook outside? Has he consoled the people who had to move away? He needs to clean up his own back yard before he cleans up Washington, D.C.”

Gale Lewis is a lot more succinct. What will a D.C. totally controlled by Faircloth look like? Well, she says, “It’s gonna have a lot of pigs in it.”CP