Big Pork, the head chef, checks the thermometer on the pot, grinning as steam rises and beads of sweat glisten on his brow. Snout, a fastidious sous chef, tosses handfuls of bay leaves into the water, humming a jaunty tune. Trotter, the event planner, pins up a banner: “Predators’ Potluck.” "Tonight, boys, we make history. Let’s get those flavors dancing!"

Grey, the alpha wolf, steps forward, trying to mask his unease. Fang and Howl linger behind, exchanging wary glances. "We were invited to... dinner, yes?" "Oh, absolutely. The guest of honor, in fact," replies Snout, his smile a shade too wide.

Trotter sprinkles salt on the shaved patches, while Big Pork adjusts the chef’s hat atop his head. "Is this... customary?" Fang asks, voice trembling. "Tradition is everything," purrs Big Pork, as pigs casually discuss flavor profiles within earshot. "You know, we never thought pigs would be so thorough," mutters Howl, earning a chilling chuckle from Snout.

Close-ups linger on trembling paws and sweat pooling beneath the wolves, contrasting with the pigs’ bored, almost cheerful expressions. "Let’s make sure they’re comfortable. It’s all about presentation," Trotter intones, adjusting a napkin around Grey's neck. "This is madness... You can't do this," Grey pleads, met only by a pig’s slow, deliberate wink.

The pigs’ faces are illuminated with anticipation, jaws slack and eyes shining. Close-ups capture their eager snouts, twitching with impatience. "Bon appétit, gentlemen," whispers Big Pork, as the wolves are lowered in. A sudden silence envelops the barn, broken only by the hiss of the pot.

"To the new order! May the hunted never forget who’s really in charge," Snout declares, raising a goblet. "And to flavor—may it always surprise us," Trotter adds, as the pigs revel in their role reversal. The camera pans out, lanterns flickering above, as the pigs bask in their darkly comic triumph, the barn echoing with absurdist laughter.