The Wolf, tall and sleek in his starched chef’s coat, sharpens his cleaver with slow, deliberate strokes. His yellow eyes reflect a hunger beyond mere sustenance—a connoisseur’s anticipation. The aroma of smoked rosemary and charred meat lingers in the air as he surveys his kitchen, lips curling into a predatory smile.
"Tonight, I shall prepare a feast worthy of legend," he muses to the shadows, each word dripping with menace.
First Pig, small and trembling, clutches a chipped bowl in his trembling hooves.
"No need to fret, my dear piglet. Let’s not make this any messier than it must be,"
"Please, I beg you—"
With a flourish, the Wolf shatters the door and sweeps the pig up, his movements balletic but cold. Soon, the hut’s hearth sputters with fresh flames, the Wolf humming as he bastes the first pig with a glaze of honey and herbs. The sizzle and sweet scent fill the night, punctuated by desperate, fading pleas.
Second Pig, heavier and stubborn, arms himself with a kitchen knife, knuckles white with fear.
"You won’t take me so easily,"
"Ah, resistance. How quaint. Perhaps a braise will render you tender,"
A brief struggle ensues, splinters flying, but the Wolf is relentless. Soon, the kitchen fills with the aroma of wine, garlic, and slow-roasting pork—the Wolf’s laughter echoing over the storm as he meticulously plates his gruesome creation.
Third Pig, eyes narrowed behind wire spectacles, assembles traps with calm efficiency. He tastes sauces, tests the locks, and arranges decoys of marzipan piglets around the hearth.
"If the Wolf wants a supper, let him step into my kitchen," he whispers, voice steady but cold.
"Come out, little pig. I’m here for the pièce de résistance,"
"The chef arrives, but who is the meal?"
A tense dance ensues in the shifting shadows—knives flash, boiling pots tip perilously, scents of caramelizing sugar and searing flesh mingle. The Wolf’s arrogance grows as he corners the Third Pig, but every step forward triggers a new, unexpected obstacle.
The Third Pig calmly adjusts the oven temperature, wiping his brow.
"A recipe for poetic justice: one Wolf, seasoned with hubris,"
"Wait, you can’t—"
But it’s too late. The Wolf is trussed and basted, his own culinary arrogance turned against him. The pig sets the table for one, savoring the irony as the Wolf’s final pleas dissolve into the hiss of roasting fat.
The house is peaceful, save for the faint aroma of victory and a perfectly browned roast cooling on the counter. The forest outside is silent—no more howls, only the satisfied sigh of a story ended justly. The third pig raises his cup in a wry toast to the morning, a survivor not by luck, but by wit.
