Why?:The Last Little Pig
Once upon a time, the Big Bad Wolf was in a terrible mood. Some might say it had something to do with the papercut on his left paw; others might go into detail about how he had just broken up with his girlfriend twice in the same week; and still others might point to the eventual realization that comes to all people and animals that life is ultimately pointless and fleeting. But in truth it had nothing to do with any of these; it had everything to do with location.
Specifically, it had to do with where the Big Bad Wolf lived. It was a mostly quiet little street in a quiet little suburb, especially after the kangaroo living a few blocks away got busted for smuggling drugs and illegal immigrants in his pouch. He used to have the most awful, blaring parties some days. But, the Wolf supposed, he had a good heart, if very little volume control.
But the kangaroo wasn't the only person the Wolf knew living nearby. Just down and across the street sat a little brick house. Innocent looking, truly, from the outside. But to the Wolf, it represented failure. Defeat. The end of his career of fear. Before that house entered into his life, he could huff and puff all he wanted — practically just sneeze, even — and whatever structure that denied him entry would come crashing to the ground. But no. That brick house, that damn brick house, was what stopped it all. Although he tried to ignore it, yes, tried to push it out of his life, seeing that terrible red square of a thing in his peripheral vision whenever he went out to do grocery shopping or go bowling, well, it was just too much some days.
So this particular fine Tuesday evening he sat sulking, plotting, as he always did. There was no sense denying it, he was obsessed. He bought little bricks just to smash them with a mallet whenever he was angry. He made models of the house out of Lego bricks just to huff and puff and watch it collapse. Some days he even went in front of that brick house where the last little pig lived and sat down and ate ham in front of it. For perhaps the fiftieth time, or maybe even the hundredth, inspiration struck him once again. He grabbed a leaf blower, plugged it in, and dragged it down the street, extension cord trailing behind. Once he approached the brick-red red brick building, he shouted, as he always did, "LITTLE PIG, LITTLE PIG, LET ME IN!"
He sighed in frustration and anger and smashed his pointer finger into the intercom button: "Little pig, little pig, let me in!"
The Wolf ignored the reply, something about his mother, and switched on the leaf blower. And he sat there, waiting for the inevitable collapse of his enemy's dwelling. He sat for twenty minutes. Some of the more curious neighbors opened up their doors and peeked out of their windows to see what was going on. Finally, when the Wolf realized that no progress was being made, he stood erect and proclaimed, "SOME DAY I'LL GET YOU, LITTLE PIG!"
He pressed the intercom again and repeated himself.
The Wolf paid little attention to this suggestion and marched straight back home. As soon as he slammed the door, he realized he'd forgotten the leaf blower. He retrieved the utterly useless device and returned home again.
Later that evening, his brother Eugene stopped by to pay him a visit. Now, Eugene was a professor at a local college, the most successful out of all the Big Bad Wolf's siblings. It was a tad depressing to see him again, when the one goal the Wolf had set for himself was never reached. Still, his brother, concerned about the Wolf's mental health, asked: "What is troubling your conscious mind, my brother? What concern plagues you so?"
"It's that damn house," the Big Bad Wolf admitted sheepishly. "That damn brick house just down the street... dammit, Eugene! Before the stupid pigs decided to get all smart on me, I could huff and puff and destroy anything I damn well pleased! But no, no, one of them had to get clever." He sighed. "I don't know what to do. If I could just get past that damn house, I'd have a better life."
Eugene thought about this. "It appears to me," he finally concluded, "that you are too focused on the destruction of the impenetrable structure instead of getting your prey to vacate the premises."
The Big Bad Wolf considered this. "So... all I have to do is get the pig out of the house... instead of worrying about wrecking the house?"
"Precisely!" Eugene declared.
"According to several well-circulated scientific journals, yes."
"Oh, well. What are brothers for, after all?" Eugene smiled.
The next morning, the Big Bad Wolf awoke with a new plan forming in his head. He went out and bought the most depressing and blackest suit he could find. Then, he found a black book from his bookshelf, and dusted it off a bit. An old, unused dark hat completed the outfit. He walked down the street in his new disguise, confidence brimming from every fiber of his body.
For the final time, he approached the brick house and pressed the intercom button. "Excuse me, if I could speak to you for a moment?" he asked calmly.
The little pig, not recognizing the Wolf's calm, complacent tone, agreed to come to the door. Cautiously, he opened the door as far as the various chains and locks would allow, a total of about an inch or so. He could hardly see who was at the door.
"Yes?" he asked the mysterious visitor, slightly annoyed by this interruption.
Fear shot through the little pig's body, jumping up and down from his toes to his forehead and making him shake all over. His worst fear — everyone's worst fear — was finally realized. He could hardly believe it was happening. He wanted to run, but he stood frozen in shock, listening to the man in black's next proclamation:
At once, the Wolf cast off his ridiculous disguise and, on all fours, ran to the back of the house and pursued the escaping pig. After months upon months of trial and the horrors of error, he caught up with the little pig and ate him.
As he was about to celebrate his victory, God, in his infinite wisdom and righteousness, struck him down for eating meat on Ash Wednesday.