Percival Pig, a clever and affable pig with a mischievous twinkle in his eye, expertly rolls out pastry, dusting flour onto his snout. He arranges apple slices in perfect spirals, consulting a battered recipe book full of cryptic notes and diagrams. Every movement is precise, betraying a mind as sharp as his chef’s knife.
"A dash of nutmeg here, a flick of cunning there... oh, Percival, you truly are a genius," he murmurs to himself, sliding a steaming pie into the oven. The kitchen clock ticks, and the air vibrates with the anticipation of something... more.
Wolfgang Wolf, lean and ragged, saunters in, eyes gleaming with hunger and predatory intent. His fur is patchy, his posture cocky, and he sniffs the air with exaggerated relish. The tension between predator and prey is palpable, but only one of them seems truly comfortable.
"Well, well, Percy. Baking pies again? You know, I always wondered what pig tastes like baked,"
"Oh Wolfgang, why settle for pig when you could have a taste of my world-famous triple-berry? It's a once-in-a-lifetime experience,"
"Don't get clever with me, pig. I'm not here for dessert. Or am I?"
"Sit! Let’s see if my pies can tame even the fiercest appetite," Percival chimes, gesturing grandly to the kitchen table.
The kitchen transforms into a stage for their verbal fencing. Percival’s eyes glint as he fills Wolfgang’s plate, always a step ahead, his small talk laced with hidden barbs and double meanings. Wolfgang, lulled by flaky crusts and sugary filling, lets his guard slip, laughter punctuating each bite.
"You know, Percy, you're not half bad. If all pigs were like you, maybe I'd retire from hunting,"
"Careful, Wolfgang, too many pies and you'll find yourself too plump to prowl,"
"Ha! Takes more than a few pies to slow down a wolf,"
But Percival only smiles, watching the empty plates stack up, the wolf’s belly rounding under his apron.
Wolfgang’s gaze sharpens, and a note of wariness creeps into his voice.
"Say, Percy—why are you being so generous? Most pigs would be halfway to the woods by now,"
"Oh, Wolfgang, I simply believe in hospitality. Besides, it's not every day I get such... distinguished company,"
The wolf narrows his eyes, but as Percival whirls out another pie—this one glistening with caramel and nuts—the suspicion melts away, replaced by hunger once more. In the background, Percival’s knives glint ominously, unnoticed.
Percival sets down an enormous, steaming pie, its aroma intoxicating. As Wolfgang leans in, Percival circles the table, his tone shifting from playful to chillingly precise.
"Wolfgang, have you ever wondered what it’s like to be the guest of honor... in more ways than one?"
Wolfgang, eyes widening, tries to rise, but his overstuffed belly betrays him. Percival snaps on an apron, his shadow looming large.
"Wait... Percy, you wouldn’t—"
"Oh, but I would. After all, you are what you eat,"
With a flourish, Percival brandishes his rolling pin, the screen fading to black as Wolfgang’s fate is sealed with a final, muffled yelp.
Percival, humming cheerfully, wipes his hands and adjusts his spectacles. He scribbles a new recipe in his battered book: “Wolf Pie—Best Served Cold.” The clock ticks on, the world none the wiser to the fate of the predator who underestimated his prey.
A fox peeks in through the window, eyes wide at the delicious aroma. Percival grins, already plotting his next culinary masterpiece.
