A hulking figure lurches into view—the Wolf, his coat matted, eyes bleary, and breath thick with the scent of last call. He fumbles at the door, swaying perilously, one paw raised as if about to knock but instead slumping against the doorframe. The wind rattles the shutters, mingling with his incoherent muttering.
"H-hello? Honey, did you change the door again? S’cold out here, legs're made of string cheese..."
The door creaks open, revealing the Pig, wearing a frilly apron and a fixed, unnaturally wide grin. He sizes up his unexpected guest, eyes glinting with calculation beneath the cheerful exterior.
The Pig steps aside, waving the Wolf in with exaggerated enthusiasm. The wolf, oblivious, nearly topples a hat stand and laughs at his own clumsiness.
"Careful there, old friend! Long night? Let me show you straight to... ah... your bed,"
"Bed? Just... point me. Or, like, roll me. The walls are spinning, but s'nice, s'cozy,"
The Pig pats him on the back, leading him past the darkened stairs and into the warm glow of the kitchen.
The Pig gestures to a chair, helping the Wolf collapse into it. He drapes a checkered towel over the wolf’s shoulders and begins rolling out dough, humming a jaunty tune.
"Smells like... pancakes. Or pillows. Wait, are you my grandma?"
"Of course, dear. Just relax, let me tuck you in—nice and snug,"
"You're a good... good pig. Never let anyone say otherwise. Mmm, s'warm,"
With every slurred word, the Pig expertly winds strips of dough around the Wolf’s limbs, nodding sympathetically as the wolf sighs in drowsy contentment.
"This a new kind of blanket? Feels like pastry. S’fancy. You’re a real host with the most,"
"Shh, don’t squirm or you’ll ruin the crust. It’s all about presentation,"
"Crust? Heh, I like a good crust. Wait—are we baking cookies?"
"Something like that. The secret ingredient is trust,"
The pig continues his meticulous work, pausing only to pat the wolf’s head affectionately, dough now cocooning the wolf’s entire torso.
With a grunt, the Pig slides the tray into the oven, humming a lullaby. He wipes his brow, sets a kitchen timer, and dances a little jig as the oven door clicks shut. The timer ticks, the room fills with the savory aroma of baking, and the pig sets the table for one.
The Pig chews thoughtfully, savoring his victory, a napkin tucked under his chin. He raises his glass in a silent, ironic toast to the portrait of three little pigs above the mantel. With a sly smirk, he licks his lips, the house echoing with satisfied, porcine laughter as the camera pans to the empty hallway.
