Brogan: Pigs Go Flying Again
James Brogan never expected his next case to involve flying pigs, but then again, nothing in this line of work ever stayed simple.
It started with a phone call from Tommy “The Hook” Callahan, the Southie meat wholesaler who still owed him for the Boston butchers mess.
“Brogan, I got a problem. One of my biggest clients — old man Kowalski over at Kowalski & Sons Packing — says the last three deliveries of pork shoulders came in wrong. Not spoiled. Not short. Just… wrong. The pigs were too calm when they were processed. Too docile. He says the meat tastes flat, like the animals didn’t have any fight left in them. He’s threatening to take his business elsewhere unless I figure out what the hell is going on. He offered me some prime steaks if I send someone to poke around. I’m sending you. Bring your weird little friends if you need them.”
Brogan sighed. “You’re paying triple for weird.”
“Done.”
So Brogan found himself standing outside Kowalski & Sons Meat Packing in the industrial district at 2 a.m., the air thick with the smell of blood, cold steel, and something faintly chemical.
Dave rode on his shoulder, tiny fedora tilted low. Marmalade stalked beside them like a grumpy orange shadow, tail flicking with irritation at the stench.
“Simple case,” Brogan muttered. “Just check the meat.”
Inside the plant, the night shift was running. Carcasses hung from rails, knives flashed, and the rhythmic thud of cleavers echoed off concrete walls. Old man Kowalski — a thick-necked Pole with forearms like hams — met them in the loading dock.
“The last batch came from a new supplier upstate,” Kowalski growled. “Supposed to be premium corn-fed. But these pigs… they walked into the stun pen like they were going to church. No fear. No struggle. The meat is tender, sure, but it’s missing something. Soul, maybe. I don’t like it.”
Dave’s whiskers twitched. “Super-corn,” he whispered.
Marmalade’s ears flattened. “The pesky corn strikes again.”
Brogan nodded. “Show me the holding pens.”
They moved deeper into the facility. In the live animal area, the next shipment of pigs stood unusually still in their pens. Their eyes were glassy. Their breathing slow and even. They looked… content. Almost drugged.
Dave slipped off Brogan’s shoulder and disappeared into the shadows. Marmalade melted into the rafters like liquid fire.
Brogan crouched by one of the pens and examined a feed trough. The corn inside had that faint, unnatural glow.
“Same strain,” he muttered.
That’s when the wrong animals showed up.
A side door burst open. Four men in dark coveralls — not plant workers — pushed in, carrying canisters marked “Industrial Gas – Flammable.” One of them had a familiar face: a mid-level enforcer who had worked for the same network that once moved super-corn through the Velvet Club.
They weren’t here to deliver meat.
They were here to destroy evidence.
The leader spotted Brogan and grinned. “Wrong place, wrong time, Ranger.”
He opened the valve on one canister. A sharp chemical smell filled the air — explosive gas, the kind used in industrial refrigeration but far more volatile when mixed with the right catalyst.
The plan was clear: flood the plant with gas, spark it, and blame it on a “tragic accident” that conveniently destroyed the tainted corn and any witnesses.
Dave moved first.
The tiny detective darted across the floor, climbed the nearest man’s leg like it was a tree, and sank his teeth into the soft spot behind the knee. The man screamed and dropped the canister. Gas hissed across the concrete.
Marmalade dropped from the rafters like an orange missile, landing on the second man’s face and clawing for all he was worth. The man staggered backward into a control panel, knocking over another canister.
Brogan drew his Glock and put two rounds into the third man’s shoulder before the fourth could raise his own weapon. The fourth man turned to run — straight into Big Mike Callahan, who had shown up unannounced after hearing about the “simple favor” from Tommy The Hook.
Mike’s fist ended the conversation.
The gas was spreading fast now. One spark and the whole plant would go up.
Dave shouted from atop a railing, “The main valve! Cut it off!”
Brogan sprinted for the emergency shutoff while Marmalade knocked over a fire extinguisher, rolling it toward the growing puddle of gas like a furry bowling ball.
The explosion never came.
Brogan slammed the valve shut just as the first spark from a fallen flashlight threatened to ignite everything. The hissing stopped.
Silence fell, broken only by the whimpering of the would-be saboteurs and the low grunting of the strangely calm pigs in their pens.
Kowalski stared at the scene — the tiny mouse detective, the grumpy orange cat, the lone Ranger, and the massive biker — and shook his head.
“I asked for someone to poke around,” he muttered. “Not a goddamn circus.”
Brogan wiped blood from his knuckles and looked at the captured men.
“Tell your bosses the next delivery better be clean. Or the pigs won’t be the only things going flying.”
Later, back at the Rusty Nail, Brogan nursed a beer while Dave scribbled notes and Marmalade groomed corn dust from his fur.
“Simple case,” Brogan said dryly.
Dave grinned around his straw cigar. “They always say that.”
Marmalade flicked an ear. “At least the steaks were good.”
Brogan allowed himself a rare, tired laugh.
Another link in the chain broken.
Another night where the wrong animals caused the right kind of chaos.
And somewhere out there, the super-corn pipeline was feeling the pressure again.
Because when pigs started going flying, it usually meant James Brogan and his strange little crew were close behind.
