A monstrous pig, 20 feet at the shoulder, looms over the Ye Olde Cherry Tree. He could crush it with one blow. He could end the traditional hog roast there in the blink of an angry eye. Crash! This is for your tradition! Smash! This is for your love of dead pigs!
But no. He doesn't. In the world of suicide food, even a gargantuan pig is happy with his lot, satisfied that he lives only to die.
The cryptic glyph above Pigoliath's head might indicate that he has been enjoying his own beer festival out back. Is that what transformed a rampaging abomination into a willing victim?