Even stuffed to bursting with the meat of his kinsmen, he has but one thought.
His abdomen taut, his pulse sluggish, his eyes heavy with impending slumber, he has just a singular idea buzzing in his spongy brain like a dozy bumblebee:
Must. Prepare. Self. For imminent eating. Must have rub. Applied to belly.
Unable to muster the energy to speak the words aloud, instead he thinks them into being. Rub my belly.
He pats his girth helpfully. "Here," he seems to say. "The rub goes right here." And then, before sinking into his pork coma, he prays you will know what to do with his lifeless body.
Addendum: Have we, perhaps, already seen this type of glutton (for punishment as well as for the meat of his own kind)? Yes, we have.