Three Pigs And A Permit

You can try something new, be prepared to be criticized and possibly fail.


Perry, Parker, and Peyton Pig—triplets, construction enthusiasts, and highly flammable when insulted—stood in their muddy yard, snorting in disagreement.



“I’m telling you,” Perry huffed, wearing a hardhat that was two sizes too small, “brick is the only way! Fireproof, wolf-proof, mother-in-law proof.”



Parker, holding a soggy cardboard rectangle, scowled. “Brick? That’s what Grandpa used! This is the future! Eco-friendly, 100% recycled Amazon Prime box housing. Efficient, sustainable, and great for overnight shipping.”



“Efficiently stupid,” Perry muttered.

“Gentlehogs!” Peyton shouted, dramatically flinging sand in the air like glitter. “We are missing the artistic soul of this endeavor. I am creating a Zen sanctuary from pure, hand-sifted sand imported from a failed beach resort!”



“You’re building a sandcastle in the woods!” Perry snapped. “It collapsed when a squirrel sneezed!”



“Oh please,” Parker rolled his eyes. “Your bricks are so heavy, your house looks like a medieval pizza oven.”



“At least my oven can’t be mailed or sneezed on!”

Suddenly, a voice boomed from the treeline. “Looooooosers!”



It was Mister Wolf, on a scooter and holding a smoothie.



Peyton gasped. “He’s back! Quick, to the houses!”



Mister Wolf sauntered to Parker’s box house, huffed, puffed—paper cuts his lip—it collapsed like a Black Friday tent sale.



Then to Peyton’s sand sanctuary—he sneezed from the incense sticks. House evaporated.



Finally, he reached Perry’s brick house, wheezed, coughed, pulled a hamstring, and collapsed.



Perry opened the window smugly. “Brick. Boom.”



As EMTs loaded Mister Wolf into an ambulance, Peyton turned to his brothers.

“Fine. We use bricks. But I’m painting mine mauve.”



Parker grumbled. “Mine better come with Wi-Fi.”



Perry sipped lemonade. “As long as no one tries building with cheese next time.”



A pause.



Peyton whispered, “…What kind of cheese?”