Ya see, us here wolves got a bad rap. We ain’t so bad. I tell ya, most of us would rather drop in to Joe’s Diner than trounce through the Woods looking for some eats.
Sure, we got these pointy chompers and a nose that won’t quit-it ain’t all roses, folks, if ya know what I mean-but none of that measures up much against a bowl of stew and cornbread. Fresh. With maple syrup. Man, I can’t stop drooling just thinking about. How ‘bouts we continue this little chat over some grub?
Now, check this out. This is the ticket right here. Potatoes, carrots and gravy. Nothing better. What’s the sauce made from? Smells like fear. Probably rabbit. Maybe Thumper.
I kid. I kid. Probably just a relation.
Now, where were we? Oh yeah. The girl. Redhead. Smokin’ body. I swear she wore nothing under that cloak but what she was born in. Yeah, I know. What kinda guy you take me for? Some perv? I’m just saying that kids today need to cover up. Us wolves got needs, ya see.
So I was following this redheaded chick because of the smell. Kid was toting a basket of cornbread. Yeah, just like this. You should really snag some and a bowl.
Vegetarian? Sheesh… Oh right, watching your figure. Listen, babe, you ain’t got nothing to worry about. To be honest, you could probably use a sandwich or two. Fatten you up. Winter is coming. ‘Cause there’s more to life than oatmeal.
Back to the story. I asked Red for a little taste and the miserable thing pepper sprayed me! Can you believe it? That’s messed up. What kind of world is this anyway? Fine. It ain’t a fairy tale. Whoop-de-do. Since when did you become an expert?
Where was I? Right. So there I was, washing my eyes in the Forest Brook, when the old broad told me to reach for the sky.
Of course I did! I grabbed me a couple clouds, right some quick. What would you do with a crossbow aimed at your pretty little melon.
I said melon. Singular. Your head. Man, a wolf can’t catch a break, can he? Gotta be politically correct with everything.
Sure, it’s your coin, blondie. We can continue.
I figure my hide is tanned, so on a lark, I says to the old battle-ax, I says “got any cornbread?”
She looks at me a minute, cocks her head sideways and pivots a little to the left. I hear the thwang-thump as the bolt splinters the tree beside me.
“You look a little gaunt, pup,” she says. “Let Granny feed you.”
Of course I went inside. Hello? Cornbread. Ya gotta keep up.
Now, don’t you believe what they say about me in that Fairyland Times of yours. It’s a rag and you know it. They’re all hacks, present company excluded.
Waitress! Some tea for me and the miss here. Thanks, Doris. You’re the best.
Right. The whole ‘what big eyes you have’ crap. All lies. Helpless granny, my left whiskers! Before I knew it, Red was behind me pinning me down and Granny was hog-tying my sorry butt. These chicks were laughing to beat old Hell, as they watched me turn on the spit over some coals. Slow roast, indeed!
And you know what added to the misery? What added salt to my predicament?
You got ‘er. They sat and ate the cornbread. And sipped tea. All peaceful. Just like you and me right now.
And that’s when that do-gooder, Dennis, hit the scene. Wagging his ax all over the place. Everybody’s story changed once I was in the Prisoner’s Box.
So you must have just one question, Goldie? One thing the Intrepid Reporter wants to know.
Bingo! How come I ain’t in prison banging out carriage license plates?
Well, I’ll tell ya.
I made this deal with the Crown, ya see. A bargain for my freedom. They’d let me go if I found them a bigger fish. Someone with a more dangerous criminal history.
See this wire? Been wearing it the whole time.
Come on in, Baby Bear. We got her dead-to-rights.
Ciao-for-now, blondie. Hope those cuffs fit ‘just right’.
Doris! I could use a little hot in my tea. All this talking has me parched.
Oh, and some more cornbread, please.
Photo by tristanf
© 2016, Doug Langille. All rights reserved.
The author has granted WritersCarnival.ca, its affiliates and syndicates non-exclusive rights to display this work.