The pig, stout and precise, stands before a bound wolf, whose proud eyes now flicker with dread. The pig’s hooves grip a razor, glinting in the sunlight as he circles his captive, humming a low, discordant tune. He begins shaving the wolf’s fur, each stroke deliberate, the bristles falling like snow onto the scarred boards.
"You don't have to do this," The wolf’s voice trembles, pride giving way to pleading. "Oh, but I do, dear. You chased me for years—and now look, I’m chasing flavor," replies the pig, a wicked smile curling his snout. The pig’s movements are clinical yet almost tender, as if savoring each step of his grim ritual.
With unhurried expertise, the pig rubs herbs into every crevice, fingers lingering just long enough to unsettle. The wolf squirms, the ropes digging into his limbs, his proud snout wrinkled with fear. "I was only doing what wolves do. Please, spare me," he gasps.
"Nature’s a messy kitchen, darling. But tonight, I’m head chef," the pig retorts, his voice thick with dark humor. He sprinkles salt over the wolf, pausing to admire the trembling flesh. The kitchen’s dim light flickers across their faces, tension rising with every touch.
The pig tucks the pastry close, smoothing the edges with a craftsman’s pride. The wolf breathes in shallow, desperate gasps, his once-commanding voice reduced to a whisper. "Is there nothing I can say to change your mind?"
"If you could talk yourself out of this, I’d have starved years ago," the pig quips, tightening the final fold. His eyes are cold, focused entirely on the task. The wolf’s head, framed by golden dough, is a grotesque centerpiece—resigned and fearful, awaiting fate.
The pig sits back, wiping sweat from his brow, watching through the oven’s tiny window. The wolf’s head grows paler, his eyes glazing with despair as heat envelopes his body. The air thickens with the smell of roasting flesh, mingled with the sweetness of pastry.
For a moment, all is silent but for the rhythmic hiss and pop from within the oven. The pig’s anticipation is palpable, his gaze never wavering from the slow transformation behind the glass. The wolf’s last expression is one of forlorn acceptance, a proud creature now utterly defeated.
The pig carves with almost reverent care, breathing in the savory aroma. He slices into the pastry, the knife sinking easily through tender meat. "Ah, you always said you were top dog. Tonight, you’re top dish," he murmurs, savoring the moment.
The wolf’s head, now slack and silent, stares out over the feast. The pig chews slowly, eyes alight with satisfaction, relishing both the meal and the reversal of power. The kitchen, once filled with tension, is now a shrine to the pig’s dark triumph.
