The Wolf grits his teeth, struggling against the twine, the pie crust crinkling beneath him. He scans the room for exits, his furless skin prickling with cold and humiliation. The Ram, wearing a crisp apron and a manic smile, hums as he selects carrots and parsnips, slicing them with almost balletic precision. "You know, I always pictured my downfall would be a bit more... dignified," "Oh, dignity is highly overrated! Besides, you’ll make a delicious centerpiece,"

The Wolf wriggles beneath a mound of turnips, voice rising in frantic sarcasm. "Let’s just skip the pie and do a soup, huh? You know, something less... confining?" "Nonsense! The crust is where the magic happens. You wouldn’t want all your flavor escaping, would you?" "Honestly, I’d prefer my flavor to be somewhere far, far away from your mouth," "Well, that’s just not on the menu today,"

"Wait, wait, can we talk about this? Maybe negotiate a side dish role? I do a mean mashed potato impression," "No substitutions, my friend! Besides, you’ve always been the main course in my eyes,"

"At least promise me you’ll use the good gravy," "Only the finest. I wouldn’t dream of skimping on you," Darkness creeps in, the wolf’s vision narrows, and finally fades to black.

"Ah, perfection! So much better than store-bought," He chews thoughtfully, wipes his mouth, and reaches for seconds, utterly unfazed by the day’s events.