Henrietta, the self-appointed leader, fluffs her feathers, eyes narrowed with cunning delight as she gestures for the others to close in on their prize. Clara, small but sharp-beaked, drags a length of twine between her claws, while Gertie, the ever-nervous chatterbox, keeps glancing at the door. In their midst, bound and trembling, sits Wolfie, a plump, wide-eyed wolf whose fur bristles with anxiety. "All right, ladies, feathers to the ready! Our guest here won’t be wriggling out this time," Henrietta crows, circling Wolfie. "I still say we use the rolling pin if he tries anything," Gertie whispers, clutching her makeshift weapon. "L-let’s talk about this—surely there’s a less...hair-raising way to settle our differences?" Wolfie pleads, eyes darting from one chicken to the next.

Clara deftly sharpens a pair of shears, her beady eyes glinting with mischief. Henrietta directs traffic, while Gertie lines up apples, her wings trembling as she slices them with surprising skill. Wolfie, sweating buckets, squirms as Clara approaches, shears poised. "Hold still, big bad, or you’ll end up with a checkerboard haircut," Clara chirps, snipping a tuft of gray fur. "Steady, now! I’m delicate!" Wolfie whimpers, eyes squeezed shut. "Focus, everyone. A patchy wolf makes for a patchy pie, and we’ve standards to uphold," Henrietta proclaims, as the chickens exchange winks and nervous giggles.

Gertie arranges apple slices atop Wolfie’s freshly shorn fur, her beak set in concentration. Clara weaves the crust with the flair of a seasoned artisan, while Henrietta sprinkles sugar with theatrical flourish. Wolfie shifts, hope flickering in his eyes as he sniffs the sweet filling. "Maybe you could just...let me taste the apples? I’ve always preferred fruit to—" "Hush, or you’ll be extra filling," Henrietta quips, prompting a round of laughter. "Oven’s hot—let’s not keep destiny waiting," Gertie declares, voice trembling with excitement.

The chickens huddle by the window, peering in with anxious anticipation. Wolfie, now resigned, gazes through the oven glass, his reflection warped by the heat. "Well, at least I’ll go out with a golden tan," Wolfie sighs, eliciting sympathetic clucks. "Look on the bright side—you’ll be the talk of the barnyard for weeks," Clara teases. "And if you’re lucky, we’ll save you a wing," Henrietta adds, as the chickens dissolve into cackles.

Plates clatter and crumbs fly as Henrietta leads a toast, her eyes shining with victory. Clara stuffs her beak, while Gertie dances on the tabletop, pie juice streaking her feathers. In the corner, a tuft of gray fur sits atop a slice, a silent tribute to their vanquished foe. "To teamwork, to pies, and to never underestimating a hen!" "And to wolves who prefer apples!" Gertie whoops, feathers flying. "If I come back, remind me to stick to salad," Wolfie’s voice echoes faintly, lost amid the laughter and the scent of triumph.