In the heart of the Louisiana night, three wolves—fur ruffled and eyes glazed with revelry—stumble through the tangled undergrowth. Their laughter is loud and slurred, echoing over the slow-moving water as they trip over roots and each other. The moonlight shines off the empty bottles left behind, a testament to their wild celebration.

Rough hands from unseen figures press the wolves down, their paws bound as the razors begin their work. Clumps of fur fall into the mud, swirling around their feet in the humid air. The wolves whimper and protest, their bravado vanishing as they glimpse the enormous pot, steam rising into the night.

Without ceremony, the wolves are dunked into the boiling water, their yelps swallowed by the hiss and froth. The masked figures toss in spices, corn, and potatoes, the fragrant mix swirling around the hapless trio. Not far behind, the baskets of crawfish are upended, their red shells tumbling into the pot with a clatter.

Gator Chef: The bayou’s culinary king, patient and precise. "Patience, mes amis," the gator drawls, his voice gravelly but proud. "A true boil don’t rush greatness. Let the flavors speak for themselves." He adjusts the fire, tasting a ladleful of broth and nodding with satisfaction. Around him, friends gather with bibs tied, plates stacked high in anticipation.

With a flourish, the gator pours the contents onto the table, a riot of color—red crawfish, yellow corn, potatoes, and the now unrecognizable wolves. Laughter and cheers erupt as everyone digs in, claws and paws working together to crack shells and gnaw bones. The air is filled with the joyous chaos of feasting, every morsel devoured with gusto.

"That’s how we do it in the bayou," he murmurs, a slow smile spreading across his scaly snout. The moon climbs higher, casting silver over the now-sleepy swamp, where not a trace of the feast—nor its victims—remains. Only the memory of flavor and laughter lingers in the heavy, perfumed air.