We can't tell whether all four of these delightful sacrifices are the children—they are called the four little pigs—or whether #2 and #4 are the parents (the apron is more than a little maternal, for one thing). Either way. It's a family affair. Or maybe "family death cult-type thing" is more apt.
Like so many families before them, they pose and mug, lighthearted, in a favorite spot. For sane people, it might be the beach or the towering canyons of a large city or a sunlit glade amid a pristine wood.
But not for the pig family.
There they are, arrayed in front of the instrument of their destruction, like proud homeowners might stand in front of the porch or mailbox of their first house.
When the pigs look back on this moment—from the afterlife—they'll see themselves grinning and waving before the fires that were soon to consume them. And, maybe, just maybe, if Eternity provides wisdom as well as peace, they'll wonder what in hell they were thinking.