Little Pigs, Little Pigs by Alex S. Johnson

“Ok, I’ve had just about enough,” said Little Pig #1, shouldering the rocket launcher. “It’s extremism, I tell you. That Wolf is on a mission to make life hell for us pigs everywhere, and it’s time we took a stand. Against the terror. Against the huffing and the puffing.”

“Of course I agree with you,” said Little Pig #2, stirring his porridge. “But shouldn’t we try diplomacy first? The Wolf has claws and teeth and agility and speed and, frankly, he’s smarter than we are.”

Little Pig #3 sighed. “Appeasement, you mean? Knuckle under? Roll over? I thought that was Little Red’s job. Or Goldilocks, or whatever the flavor du jour happens to be. I’m with LP #1. We amass weapons, we galvanize the village animals, start spreading anti-Wolf propaganda, and above all, use massive force to drive the Wolf out of FairyLand. I’m all for a wet insert, if we can. He’s isolated, everybody hates  him except those fucking bimbettes, and I can guarantee we’ll be heroes.”

“Word,” said LP #1. “So what’s our strategy? Our battle plan? We can’t just go in there without a plan.”

“Maybe…we could try voodoo. You know, the black arts. Gris-gris. Hoodoo. We’ll make an effigy of him with mashed potatoes and then stab it to death with our steely knives. Oh, the agony he will suffer! The pain! He’ll feel like he’s eaten ground glass and cyanide. Then his mouth will foam over, he’ll rot before our eyes, we’ll turn him into a casserole and feed it to that Grandma Hood woman. Serve her right for her collusion with the Wolf. She and Little Red can share it. Then they’ll both turn green, chuck up their guts, mutually masturbate…” Little Pig #3 sat down slowly on the bench and put his head in his trotters. “I’m sorry, I’ve been under a lot of stress lately.”

“It’s all good, Brother Pig,” said LP #1. “The trouble with voodoo is that we’re overly emotional about the Wolf. If we could just abstract our wrath and throw the curse without ire, it might work. Or, it might boomerang on us badly, and not only will the huffing and puffing be extreme, it will follow us times three.”

“Yeah, that’s what I get for being the Third One,” said Little Pig #3, quietly sobbing. “Momma always did prefer you two best.”

“Come, come” said LP #1. “I didn’t mean it like that. Look, why don’t we find the hatchet, bury it in the Wolf’s head, come home, celebrate, roll around in the mud the way we used to do. It’ll be fun.”

“I know,” said LP#2. “We could all dress up as bimbettes. The blonde wig, with the curls and the stacked heels…get the Wolf blind drunk, maybe a blow job, a hoof job, whatever. Then BAM, off comes his head. I volunteer to suck that furry cock. I’ve always wanted to go interspecies.”

“And I thought I was the one who’d lost his ever-loving mind,” said LP #3. “Wigs, BJ’s, decapitation? What have you been smoking, and where can I get some? I saw you hanging out with the apothecary in the village. It’s the Jenkum. Right?  Spit it out. You’re a shit-huffer now.”

“No, man. I’ve been clean for yonks, mate. A little mild acid now and then, some rum, pickle juice, aside from that, I’m completely straight.”

“Maybe it’s the pickle juice talking, then. You sure are spinning, Brother. First you want to appease in one way, then you want us to go down on all fours and…I mean, in another sense than the usual.”

Little Pig #1 strode to the closet, pulled out the hatchet from under a pile of flowery hats and brandished it before him. His brothers stood back. “Damn, that’s a nice hatchet!” said LP #2. “So, while LP #3 and I engage the Wolf in ass play, you can bring that thing down over his head, we all take a nice vacation in that Oz place, sue the Wolf’s estate for grievous emotional distress and loss of income, appetite, housing…”

“I’m with Number 3,” said LP #1. “Jenkum’s all right, but you’re going sideways behind the shit, Number 2. Let’s say we skip the ass play and get right down to the chopping of Wolf head. Maybe roll a gas bomb into his cottage, wait till he passes out, clip his head off, put it on a pike and start a parade through the village.”

Wolf Headquarters

“What is it, Clowny?” The Wolf was about to have a complete nervous collapse. Listening to Clowny the Badger’s ranting and raving for hours on end about the pigs, the pigs, the little pigs…the way they had abused and reviled her, spread lies and falsified her records. For the Wolf, it wasn’t personal. Sure, he hated the pigs with a passion that bordered on the sublime, but in an entirely different way. When he smelled pig, he salivated and his belly growled and fantasies of hot cakes with sausage swam before his vision. And then to have his food put on airs, trot freely through the woods lugging that damn log everywhere they went so they could sit and make bitchy comments about his love life…but enough. He understood that the pigs weren’t responsible for his agitation, his unhappiness, his general  frustration with life. They just pissed him off and made the hairs on his nape stand up like bristles on a hairbrush.

Clowny the Badger widened her eyes and shook her claws in his face. “Well, a little squirrel told me there was some talk among the pigs. Something about a Porcine Liberation Front. They plan to use massive force against you. What are you going to do about it? I say we put the original mission into effect, starting now. What’s more, they’re stealing our crap.”

“I hear you,” said the Wolf, scratching his neck. “But it’s crap, isn’t it? What brain-addled moron would believe all that nonsense about voodoo and spells and the black arts anyway?”

three little pigs1
“We’re gonna get so fucked up!” “Hells yeah we are.” “See ya, Momma Pig.” “What she don’t know won’t make her cry tears of blood, right?” “Tears of blood? Brother, you are not well.”

Clowny pulled off her wig and straightened her shoulders. “You too, Wolfie? But I trusted you. I thought we were besties. Guess I’m all alone in the world. Good thing I saved up all those pain pills. Farewell, cruel world!”

“Oh please, Clowny. There’s no reason to be so fucking dramatic. We’re in this thing together.”

“Really?” Clowny brightened. “Oh, Wolfie darling, I knew you’d come around.”

“Um…could you please not cry on me? I spent several hours grooming myself this morning and the tears just make me wet again. I used the special hair lotion. It’s supposed to give my pelt a special fluff. It there’s sodium in the mix, it turns me green. And I don’t like green. It’s my least favorite color.”

“So, we’re still going forward with the smiting and the huffing and puffing?”

“We are not doing anything,” said the Wolf. You will help me trap the pigs and keep them captive until we figure out what to do with them. I think bacon, sausage, ham slices. We’ll start up a restaurant.  Save some pig parts for DNA work, cloning, you know. I understand it’s big now.”

“Can we torture them first? Put them on a spit? Make them die…slowly?”

“Whatever. Yeah. Hey, what’s this I espy through the window? Could it be three maidens, innocents in the woods?”

“For fuck’s sake, Wolf, use your brain instead of your dick for once. Can’t you see it’s the pigs?”

“Oh, right. Ok, we can use this to our advantage. Invite them in, I’ll hide in the closet and put on my Grandma wig and panties and stuffed bra and wait for the signal. Then…we tie them up, bleed them out and cut them into pieces.”

“I don’t know. I’m with you except for the wig and the panties and…dude, what is your damage? Why do you have to bring cross-dressing into all our evil machinations?”

“Does it matter?”

“Maybe. No. Not really.”


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