Hank, a massive horse with mottled gray fur and unsettlingly intelligent eyes, drags a limp, ragged wolf carcass through the wet leaves. The ground is stained dark beneath the wolf’s body, and Hank’s breath fogs ominously as he studies his prize. Shadows gather thick around them, swallowing the last remnants of daylight.
Hank props the wolf onto the table, his hooves stained crimson. He begins to shave away the wolf’s fur in slow, deliberate strokes, humming a guttural tune. The wolf, eyes glassy with terror, struggles weakly as Hank rubs salt and herbs into his exposed skin. The stench of raw meat hangs heavy, mixing with the sharp tang of onions and carrots.
Wolf, trembling, manages to speak. "Why are you doing this? What is all this for?"
"You’re not a wolf anymore," Hank replies, his voice deep and cold. "You’re just a piggy now. And piggies are for roasting."
The candles flicker as a draft sweeps through, and Hank smiles, his teeth yellow and sharp.
Hank hefts the transformed wolf and slides him onto a greasy tray. The wolf’s eyes widen, panic rising, but his limbs refuse to obey. Hank pushes the tray into the oven, slamming the door shut with a final metallic clang. The sizzle and hiss of burning flesh fills the room, drowning out the wolf’s muffled screams.
Hank carves thick slabs from the roasted wolf, steam curling up in greasy ribbons. He eats slowly, savoring each bite, his eyes fixed on the empty chair opposite him. The wolf’s bones clink together in a bowl, surrounded by half-chewed vegetables. Silence reigns, broken only by the wet sounds of chewing and the hiss of the dying fire.
Hank emerges, his mouth stained dark, dragging a burlap sack stuffed with bones and scraps. He scatters them beneath the trees, humming his guttural tune. The forest seems to shrink away from him, branches curling tighter, and the animals in the distance fall silent, as if mourning the wolf that became the piggy for Hank’s grisly feast.
