The third pig, compact and shrewd-eyed, muscles the snared form of the wolf across the threshold, breath hissing with exertion and anticipation. Every movement is measured, wary—each glance flicks to the wolf’s bound paws to ensure the trap holds. He pauses to catch his breath, surveying his prize with a grim, quiet pride.
The third pig plants the wolf onto a three-legged stool, hands steady as he sharpens a straight razor. With a ceremonial air, he lathers the wolf’s chin, ignoring the wolf’s desperate, darting eyes.
"Pig, wait—let’s talk. I can make you a deal. You don’t have to do this. I know a shortcut to the henhouse, or—"
"How many deals did you offer my brothers before you huffed and puffed?"
"That was business. This is... culinary madness!"
"It’s survival. Now hold still, or you’ll get a nick."
The razor scrapes with a soft, rhythmic sound, revealing the wolf’s pale, vulnerable skin beneath his bristles.
"You’ll regret this! You’re supposed to be prey—"
"Today, the menu’s changed," he replies, voice low with satisfaction.
With a grunt, the third pig lowers the wolf into the crust. He tucks in the wolf’s paws, pinching the edges closed with a flourish. The wolf’s indignation sours into fear, then sullen resignation as the pig paints the pastry with a brush, his satisfaction nearly palpable.
The third pig slides the monstrous pie into the oven, hands steady, breath calm. He watches through the glass as the crust turns golden, fat bubbling at the seams. The wolf’s last muffled protests fade into the comforting crackle of fire and dough, and the pig allows himself a weary smile.
The third pig carves a generous slice, the knife sinking through flaky layers to reveal tender meat. He chews slowly, savoring the mingled flavors of triumph and relief.
"To cleverness, and to the fallen," he murmurs, raising his fork in a solitary toast. The kitchen is silent but for the quiet sounds of eating—a survivor’s symphony, underscored by the warmth of hard-won satisfaction.
