Everyone’s heard about the Big Bad Wolf but he’s old now. His tail drags on the floor and his whiskers have turned grey. He’s constantly being picked on by little pigs while he sits idly in his rocking chair looking at pictures of wild boar in an old copy of National Geographic. His huff and puff can’t even open a door now. What’s amazing is that he still has a couple of teeth left. These give him a horrible toothache which the little pigs love to tease him about. Can’t eat pig with a toothache.
So there he sits, dreaming of better days, those days of chasing pigs and running from the woodsman. Just outside the door, there’s a patch of wolfbane. It would make a great salad but it’s hard to chew, he has an allergy, and it’s also hallucinogenic. Last time he ate some, he met a girl named Hood in the forest. The visions of her haunt him to this very day. So there he sits, flipping the pages and rocking gently to the strains of Sweet Caroline mixed with the dissonant oinking of carefree pigs.
murder is a sin…
laughter bears a resemblance
to salvation
