Who’s Afraid of the Big Bad Wolf? — A Hilarious Retelling of Classic Tales

There I was, wriggling my furry bottom on top of the brick chimney, laughing like the evil genius I was. My plan was foolproof. This time, I was finally going to catch those three pesky little pigs. With a triumphant howl, I shimmied down the chimney, giddy with anticipation.

Then — YEEEOOWWW!

Blazing pain shot up my tail. I was in hot water — literally! Someone had lit a boiling pot beneath the fireplace! Yelping, I shot up and out, landing in a smoking heap on the pigs’ tiled floor. Gasping, I spotted the door — wide open. I had to get out before those wicked little porkers had something else up their sleeves.

I dashed out of the house and into the forest, my burned tail trailing smoke. Behind me, the laughter of the three little pigs echoed, their snorts of amusement ringing through the trees. My pride stung worse than my tail.

Back at my den, hidden deep in the forest, I nursed my wounds and my ego. A pang of loneliness settled in my gut. I wasn’t just hungry — I was friendless. A single tear rolled down my furry cheek.

“No more hunting,” I muttered to myself. “Time to retire. I’ll change my ways.”

But no sooner had I sworn off my villainous career than posters with my snarling face popped up all over the woods:

BEWARE — BIG BAD WOLF ON THE LOOSE!

From that moment on, doors slammed at the sight of me, windows locked, and whispers followed me like a bad smell. It was hopeless. How was a reformed wolf supposed to find friends — or food?

To make matters worse, being a wolf in a fairy tale world is a lose-lose situation. Around here, eating your neighbors isn’t just frowned upon — it’s headline news. Sometimes, I wished I lived in the real world — you know, the one in those boring non-fiction books where wolves run in packs, hunt together, and nobody minds if you eat a deer or two.

But that was just a silly dream.

Days passed. I tried surviving on berries, nuts, and roots. My belly grumbled like a distant storm. Sleep barely came. Then, one evening, as I curled up in my drafty den, the most heavenly smell floated through the air — rich, meaty, and mouth-watering. My eyes popped open. Sniff, sniff… That wasn’t a dream!

I scrambled outside, nose to the air, until I saw her — a little girl in a red hooded coat, skipping along with a basket swinging from her arm.

“Hello, little girl,” I called sweetly. “Where are you off to?”

She eyed me suspiciously. “Taking stew to Grandma. She’s sick.”

“Mmm, stew. Sounds… comforting.” I licked my lips.

She didn’t like that. “I better go,” she said, darting down the path.

Lucky for me, I knew a shortcut to Grandma’s. Soon, I burst through the old lady’s door with my best villain growl.

Grandma shrieked like a banshee and leapt from her bed with surprising agility.

“Please, don’t eat me!”

I rolled my eyes. “Relax. I’m not into tough old meat.”

I shoved her into the wardrobe for safekeeping and slipped into her nightie. Soon, the little girl arrived, placing the stew on the table. She tiptoed over to my bedside, peering closely.

“Grandma, what big eyes you have.”

“All the better to see that stew with.”

“And what big ears you have.”

“All the better to hear my stomach growl.”

Her nose wrinkled. “And… Grandma, what big teeth you have!”

“All the better to eat… stew with!” I cheered, tongue hanging out.

For some reason, that spooked her. Screaming, she bolted from the house. I shrugged, pulled off the itchy bonnet, and sat down to eat. Just as I raised the bowl to my mouth, the door crashed open. A burly man with an axe glared at me.

“You ate Grandma!” he bellowed.

“No, I didn’t! She’s in the wardrobe!”

He glanced back just long enough for me to dive between his legs and hightail it out of there. Why was it that every time I showed up, people assumed the worst?

Back at my den, shivering, starving, and sulking, I tried to ignore the rain pattering on my flimsy roof and the annoying fairies buzzing outside (mental note: buy fairy spray). Just as I was about to surrender to misery, my ears twitched.

Bleating.

Sheep.

I perked up and dashed through the forest until I found a clearing filled with plump, fluffy sheep — the juiciest, fattest meal I’d seen in weeks. A young boy lounged under a tree, watching over them.

“Care to spare a sheep or two?” I asked politely from the forest’s edge.

His eyes bugged out. “It’s the Big Bad Wolf!” he screamed.

An elf walking by shook his head. “Yeah, yeah, you say that every time.”

The boy continued to wail, “Wolf! Help! Wolf!”

No one came.

So… what choice did I have?

I ate a couple of sheep. And then, since the boy was right there… well, let’s just say he made a decent dessert.

Moral of the Story:

Old habits die hard — especially on an empty stomach. And really, if you keep crying wolf, don’t be surprised when the real one shows up.