And This Little Piggy Went to Norpulon 7

On the 232nd anniversary of the original Broman the Centurion, Gary will forget his sandwich.
This will be what many a few will one day refer to as “A typical Gary move.”

Unfortunately, for Gary, he will make more than one typical Gary move this day.

Gary will realize that he forgot his precious beef and cheddar on rye.
In his panic, not wanting to miss any more of Broman vs Clobberzilla, the best Broman that will release in the past century, Gary will neglect to cancel the autolaunch sequence as he sprints out of the ship in pursuit of the beefy, cheesy goodness.

Gary will burst out of The Belchin Sow and fly down his dirt drive.
He will barrel through the farmhouse door.
Gary will then fling open the fridge door (for no reason at all), realizing the sandwich will be right there on the counter where he left it.

He will snatch it up like a man possessed, reverse course, trip three or seven times, and flee through the door once more.

Gary will race back across the dirt.
He will stumble, regain his balance, stop, and notice a procession of pigeons perched along his pig pen’s perimeter.

Gary will raise his sandwich as if it were a sword and roar in their direction:
“CLOBBERZILLA’S GOT NO HONOR!”

The pigeons will blink back at Gary’s outburst.
Then a typical Gary move will reach its inevitable climax.

Gary will feel a slight tremor.
He will then bear witness to this folly of his own design.

Gary will turn, sandwich still raised, as The Belchin Sow begins its ascent.

Smooth.
Automatic.
Unbothered.

He will stand frozen, like a man watching his pigs fly off in his spaceship.
Because that will be what will happen.

The ship will rise with majestic indifference, guided by nothing but programming, propulsion, and a total absence of Gary.

Dust will billow around him, and Gary will take a single, dazed step forward.

“Wait,” he will say to the ship, but the ship will not hear him because The Belchin Sow will have no ears.
It will also be really, really far away.

The ship will slip into the upper atmosphere like it will have done this before.
Because it will have.
Many times.
With, and now without, Gary.

Gary will look down at the sandwich in his hand, up at the sky, then back down at the sandwich.
He will sigh.
He will whisper, “My pigs…”

And high above, where sound will still be unable to follow and logic will have long since given up, the pigs will begin to float.

* * *

Inside The Belchin Sow, the pigs will fall.
Not far. Just enough to remind them that, once again, the floor is real and it belongs to them.

A flurry of clumsy landings will echo through the corridors.
Some pigs will squeal.
Some will grunt.
All will pause, blinking in the sudden certainty of down.

Then, movement.

In the cargo bay, three pigs will gather around a single, bruised apple rolling in lazy circles near the wall.
They will stare at it as if it has spoken first.

“Hrrnk.”
“Grnk, hrrrnnk-hrrnk.”

The third will snort once, deeply, and begin to nudge the apple toward a corner with the solemnity of a priest moving an idol.

Farther down the corridor, five pigs will surround a maintenance panel humming faintly with system checks.
They will not know what it does.
They will not care.

“Oink.”
“Snrk.”
“Hnnngk-oink.”

They will fall quiet for a moment.
Then, almost as one, they will turn and begin walking.
Not toward anything in particular, but as if their hooves remember something the rest of them does not.

Near the cockpit, a lone pig will peer out through the viewplate.
Warp will curl endlessly beyond the glass.
Lights will bend.
Shapes will suggest things that aren’t quite there.

The pig will snort once, softly.

Behind it, a faint clang.
A crate will tip.
Apples will spill.
A chorus of grunts and delighted squeals will rise in response.

The ship will continue forward, steady and unthinking, carrying its crew of wandering pigs deeper into the tunnel’s winding silence.

* * *

Over time, measured not in hours, but in oinks and exploration, the pigs of The Belchin Sow will begin to separate into factions.

They will not fight.
They will simply… gravitate.

* * *

In the forward cargo bay, a group of seven will form around an apple.

No, The Apple.
It will no longer roll, but that will not matter.
They will still gather, noses nearly touching it in a loose circle, snorting in rhythm like monks before a sacred fruit.

“Hrrrrrnk.”
“Hrrrrnk.”
“Snrrrk-hnk.”

Occasionally, one will lick it.
The others will nod, solemn.

* * *

In the ship’s galley, another clique will emerge.
Larger.
Louder.
Far more mobile.

They will find the poofs.

A hidden cabinet left unlatched will yield Gary’s emergency stash:
twenty-three bags of Inferno Cheezy Poofs (Now With 8% More Danger).

The pigs will be enraptured.

Some will eat the poofs.
Some will roll in them.
One will stick its entire head into a bag and not come out for several minutes.

Then one will step on the remote.
The wall screen will flicker to life.
Broman vs Clobberzilla will begin to replay.

The pigs will freeze.

Onscreen, Broman will declare:
“Honor lives in the heart of a lava beast!”

One pig will grunt. Slowly. With reverence.
Another will respond with a low, echoing snuffle.

“Snrrnk… Clobzrrnk.”
“Brrr-hrrnk.”
“Frrnk. Hnk-hnk.”

Soon, they will settle into neat rows.
Front hooves planted.
Ears twitching.
Bags of poofs spread like offerings.
They will not look away for the duration of the film.
They will watch every second.

* * *

In the maintenance duct, a trio of small pigs will discover a warm vent and declare it home.

They will stack themselves like loaves and sleep in shifts.
Occasionally, one will rise, grunt something declarative, and return with a stolen food packet from the galley.

“Hnk-grrk.”
“Snf.”
Silence.

They will nap.
They will snack.
They will be left alone.

* * *

In the cockpit, five pigs will maintain a silent vigil at the viewplate.

They will take turns standing closest to the screen, watching the warp tunnel stream past, eyes wide and unblinking.

“Grnk… hnk-Grrry?”
“Grnk. Grnk-we.”

Behind them, on a console, a slowly blinking light will signal a transmission request from Norpulon 7.
None of the pigs will notice.

But they will grunt softly, in low, musical patterns.
And the view beyond the glass will stretch on forever.

* * *

And so they will travel,
each group finding meaning in the hum of the ship,
the taste of poofs,
or the mystery of starlight.

They will not know where they are going.
But they will be together.

* * *

The ship will arrive at Norpulon 7 as planned.

It will descend through the pale, drifting haze above Scour Valley Colony, its trajectory unwavering.
It will aim for Plot #199-Alpha, Gary’s agricultural unit-in-progress, just as it was programmed to do.

This will be the final delivery.
The last load.
The pigs.

For months, crates will have been arriving.
Steel posts will have been offloaded.
Feed silos will have been stacked but not yet filled.

Gary’s name will have been stamped on digital manifests,
his voice will have been heard in three work orders,
and his half-installed barn will have stood waiting, exposed to the wind.

But Gary will not be there.

The Belchin Sow will land with mechanical calm.
The thrusters will kick dust across the packing crates.
A tarp will lift and flutter.
The engines will power down.

Inside, the pigs will wait.
Then, the ramp will descend.

“Hrrrrnk.”
“Frrnk… frrnk.”
“Hnk-grrnk.”

They will step into the light of a world already prepared for them.

* * *

The soil will be dry.
The fencing will remain unfinished.
The hydration line will leak, slightly.
A windchime made from scrap will clink softly against the side of the prefab unit.

The pigs will not hesitate.

Some will head toward the shade where water has pooled from last week’s storm.
Some will trot through the open door of the homestead, left ajar, waiting.

They will move without instruction.
They will settle without command.

Inside, Gary’s half-unpacked life will wait in stillness.
A cot will remain unmade.
A ration pack will sit half-eaten on a crate marked MISC. FARM STUFF.
The boots he will have meant to return for will remain by the door, their soles still caked with Earth dust.

None of it will matter now.

The pigs will move through the space like they have always belonged to it.

* * *

One will place a hoof on a blinking panel and silence it.
One will tug open a bag of nutrient pellets.
One will locate an old apple, stored weeks earlier, forgotten, still bruised but intact.

The circle pigs will gather, and the ritual will resume.
Others will collapse into blankets left bundled in the corner.
One will fall asleep in the dry basin of the unfinished shower.
The Poof pigs will chew and scatter bits of foil like confetti.

No one will record this moment.
No system will log it as a milestone.

But the pigs will arrive.
And the pigs will remain.

* * *

The land will accept them without resistance.
The systems will continue running.
The house will hold its shape.

And the pigs, unconcerned, unknowing, unafraid,
will turn this place into a home not because they understand it,
but because they will be here.
Because they will have come.
Because Gary will not.
And because the future, in its quiet indifference,
will make space for pigs.

* * *

And back on Earth, Gary will continue to stand, with sandwich in hand, unmoving.

Gary will not notice the pigeons’ continued interest.
The pigeons will notice Gary’s sandwich.
Gary’s sandwich will contain The Cheese of Plenty.
“Coo?”

^{_{© 2025 Jonny Writes}}