Mayor der Wolf Meets the Three Little Pigs
  Cindy Matthews

In the grandest city in Canada ruled a mayor named der Wolf. He was as globular and thin-skinned as Humpty Dumpty. Der Wolf adored his city and its people. The citizens he held highest were low-life, scamming, druggie degenerates.

One day der Wolf decided to bake a cake for a degenerate granny who lived in a flat by a gorge. But dang if the mayor couldn’t find a speck of sugar anywhere. So he wobbled down the laneway into a Jetta belonging to his chum and unofficial driver, Ordnas Isil.

The driver said, “I know some cool pigs, man, where we can score some sugar.”

The first house they came to was made entirely of weed. The minute Humpty Dumpty mayor knocked on the house of weed, the door collapsed in laughter. It felt immoral going into a stranger’s house so the mayor waited and called, “Hello, Piggy Piggy. Anyone home?”

Silence. So der Wolf said, “Let’s go, Ordnas. No one’s here.”

The mayor chewed the toffee aroma circling the house and soon developed a hankering for something deep-fried and salty. Suddenly der Wolf felt a tingling crawl over his skin. He huffed, and snuffed, and huffed, and snuffed, and out exploded a spectacular sneeze that set the house ablaze.

All around cameras clicked and a million microphones jammed his face. The house of weed smouldered, releasing a scent of Everton mints and lethargy. Right there, dead as dead, was most adorable Little Pig. So, to head off an insatiable hankering for nibblies, the mayor inhaled every speck of charred pork.

“I came here for sugar, I swear,” der Wolf told reporters.

He thrust the cameras away. He instructed Ordnas Isil to return home and abandon the search. “Let’s stop by that charming bakery on Avenue Road to pick up cake for degenerate granny.”

But Ordnas Isil shook off the mayor and drove him to a second house. That house belonged to the brother of first Little Pig. It was constructed entirely of mickey bottles. Shimmering glass gleamed with such glossiness the mayor had to buff away the sheen from his Humpty Dumpty forehead. Der Wolf leaned against a fence of rum bottles and buzzed the door bell. No one answered so he called, “Hey, Mr. Pig. Mr. Pig, it is I, the mayor of our fine city. Open up or else.”

The mayor propped himself against the sparkling door from which a teeny-tiny voice said, “Go away, der Wolf. I don’t have anything you’d want.”

On account of some white powder lingering under the mayor’s beak plus the flickering stink of something akin to hand sanitizer, he huffed, and snuffed, and huffed, and snuffed, and from his snotty snout exploded a spectacular sneeze.

The home detonated into a jumble of busted beakers. And there in a pile of shattered glass, blistering hide, and singed body hair, dead as dead, was second Little Pig.

Der Wolf and Ordnas Isil arm-wrestled over scorched riblets. The mayor wiped his charred, sticky fingers on his Humpty Dumpty tummy and thought, “I’m starting to feel just a tad full.”

A million microphones and cameras blocked his departure. A ravenous reporter said, “Do enlighten us about what’s loitering on your face and causing these bouts of sneezing.”

Der Wolf had no time to mull over an honourable response, so he answered like any Humpty Dumpty mayor would. “For the record, I’m not nor have ever been a kiss-and-tell mayor. Never speak about this again.”

The mayor couldn’t wait to escape to fetch that cup of sugar for degenerate granny. Ordnas Isil said, “Come on. I know a guy.” So once more, der Wolf squeezed his sorry ass into that trivial excuse for a car.

They stopped at third Little Pig’s house. Now, this pig was no simple swine. He’d built his house of rock. Ordnas Isil battered and slammed himself against the house of rock until a tiny morsel broke off. Ever the performer, he whipped out a glass tube and stuffed it with crystals. “Here, Mayor,” said Ordnas Isil, torching his lighter. “Try this and convince me you don’t love it.”

So der Wolf huffed, and snuffed, and huffed, and snuffed until every pore leached the stench of mints steeped in hair-perming solution. The mayor’s rotting teeth flashed a Humpty Dumpty grin. He flipped into a handstand, kicked the door of the house of rock, and said, “Hey, Pig Number Three. I’m your fine mayor and the smoke from your house makes me feel yummy all over.”

A voice from the centre of the house said, “Get away, der Wolf. I never voted for you.”

Der Wolf felt a smidgen edgy. He needed some sugar before the opportunistic reporters spoiled everything. So he said, “Look, Pig, I need sugar for degenerate granny. While I’m here, you won’t mind if I help myself to some rock?”

That was awfully impolite and bold of der Wolf. But the mayor knew he just didn’t have much huff or snuff left.

Using his talon-like fingers, the mayor rasped at the walls of the house of rock until a crack revealed. Der Wolf jammed his pockets and wedged some rock inside his Humpty Dumpty ass. From the Jetta, Ordnas Isil studied what was going down. All this waiting around triggered in him an elongated jadedness toward what had otherwise been a fun, eventful day.

Third Little Pig, it seems, was a highly compensated police informant. He crept into the rear of the Jetta and initiated a deal Ordnas Isil was gravely disturbed to refuse. As a result of their clandestine confab and a pile of hard cash, Ordnas Isil turned snitch with nary a flash and forever turned his back on der Wolf. He quickly tapped a tweet: “Hey, everybody. Get a load of this.” Never did seven more innocuous words and a reasonably clear picture of der Wolf’s dusty snout receive more retweets.

And the rest, shall we say, is history.

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