April 13

The truth be known.

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Three little pigs, that’s right, three filthy swine moved into our serene and congenial forest glen of green grass and meadow flower. The first, a steel cap shod good for nothing razorback. Built his house of straw upwind, what an eye-sore. The smell was atrocious no decency at all. He invited others to loll at his parties of smut, they arrived on motorised HOGs with pillion prized female but. 

The second little pig, a clever little dick, built his house out of sticks. Sticks I say, stripping our homes of much needed cover. Ha, he thought he was smart. Smart-arse more like it. He and his crowd of self-righteous squealers would gather on Sundays and sing their drivel and call hallelujah. Reflectively they planted little gardens and tell each other how they found the way. Of course, the naval gazing fools only managed to attract termites. Let me tell you there is nothing more fearful in this world than a cess pit teeming with termites.

Finally, the coming of the worst kind, the traditionalist. Little Pig the Third. He made his house out of bricks, so we are blind to decisions that affect us all, and the depravity of twisted minds. Oh sure, the conservative use of burning pig-shit to power lights and warm his house that pollutes with a hell of a stench.

We needed to breathe fresh air once more.

So, we did the right thing. Contacted the council and made clear the non-compliance of development regulation. Ha, Little Pig the Third’s cousin is the residing chair of the council. There was nothing left to do but, take maters in our own hands. We hired The Wolf. Word has it no problem to big or too small for this fella. One generally doesn’t discuss business arrangements, let’s just say six months’ supply of apple sauce and a bacon slicer were part of what we are hoping for.  

He approached the first little pig and gave him an offer, but he refused. Slammed his door, laid down a challenge to ‘come and get me’ and turned up the stereo, God, that bloody rap is painful. The Wolf got out his trumpet and he huffed and puffed and blew that horn until that house of straw collapsed and was no-more. Tell you something bub, as a vegetarian that roast pork sure smelt inviting.

The second little Pig, wouldn’t listen, he was not going anywhere. He had the given right, he slammed the door with his good book in hand and declared with faith, he’d make a stand. Now, as a pragmatist the Wolf shook his head and pulled out his weapon of brass and huffed and puffed until twine unwind and twig split. Then the house of sticks was no more, and that little piggy went wee, wee, wee all the way to the smokehouse.

Now the Wolf is smart, he made an appointment with Mr Brickhouse and laid done the facts as he saw them. The Wolf refuses a better offer, as he has morals you know.  So, he goes outside and counts to ten. He contemplates those brick walls and gets out his polishing rags to give his weapon of mass devastation an edge. He huffs and puffs and blows his horn. The windows shatter the gutters fall, but still the walls remain tall. Undaunted the Wolf again huffs and puffs and blows that brass into an almighty roar. Unfortunately for the Wolf, he didn’t hear the sirens emanating from a stream of police cars and army trucks that came hurtling down our road.

Now, the Wolf he ain’t dumb, he looked around and did the sums, he went quietly cuffed by the thumbs. In the big house, Wolfy found his number, playing all night, the other cons got no slumber. But that’s okay, ‘cause now the convicts party all night sleep all day. Wolfy finally found a place where he is accepted and respected. I know what you’re thinking, what became of us? Well, you see we’re all happy as can be. As Little Pig the Third came out of his house and stood on his doorstep to laugh and gloat as they took poor Wolfy away. Down came the roof, tiles and wall. Every Christmas we send the Wolf, a half a side bacon and tell him we’re his number one fans.

Photo by Markus Winkler on Unsplash


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