I couldn’t help it. I was too hungry. Besides, I was pissed at them. Pissed at them all: the three little piggies, and with Peter. You know, Peter and the Wolf. They’re little, they’re cute, so everyone loves them. But not me, I'm big and ugly. They keep saying that what matters is what’s on the inside. Not really.
Speaking of which, I gotta take care of my insides. I am hungry, so I better go into my routine: You know, “The better to eat you with my dear?” I'm sick of it but it works.
Ah, that’s better. But as you may know, depending on which version of my story you read, soon after I’ve got the hero in my stomach, my guilt takes over and I have to vomit the lucky twit right back up again. Excuse me a moment.
That’s better. But now I’m hungry again. But finally, someone is paying attention to me, so I’ll talk with you for a few minutes before I find some fairy-tale twerp to eat. And this time, I will not vomit him up. You just wait and see.
You ask how a wolf can feel guilt? I’ll tell you how: My mother, that’s how. Every time I’d gnaw on a piece of furniture, let alone a deer—She’d only let me eat beavers, birds, and fish. I hate fish—She’d look at me with those big eyes and whimper, “How could you, Wolfie? How could you!?” So I spent my childhood feeling like crap just for doing what comes naturally.
Okay, enough of the psychobabble sob story. I need to get something to eat. They didn’t come up with the saying, “Hungry like a wolf” for nothing.
Hey, I think I see some easy prey. There’s this kid skipping down the lane singing, “To grandmother’s house I go.” Well, there’s only one house in this forest. I’ll break in, eat grandma, and then maybe have the kid for dessert.
What a naive grandma; the door’s open. Hmm, no grandma. She must have gone out to, ha-ha, kill a deer. People like to eat deer but the thought makes them squeamish so they call it venison. But I digress. I’ll hide and if the kid comes in, dinner is served.
Here she is! But she’s so cute. No, I can’t fall for that looks crap. I’m going to eat that kid! But she has her whole life ahead of her. And my mom would kill me if she knew I was dining on kid, even if it wasn’t a goat. No-- I’ll put on the stupid grandma babushka and her apron.
Little Red Riding Hood exclaimed, “My what big ears you have.”
“The better to hear with you with my dear.”
I’m hungry. I’ll skip widening my eyes. I don’t need to hear “Grandma what big eyes you have.” I’ll cut to the chase and flash my teeth.
“Grandma, what big teeth you have.”
“Bingo. Better to eat you my dear.”
Aw shit, I just don’t have the heart. “Kid, I’m the Big Bad Wolf, and at the risk of screwing up your 500-year-old fairy tale, I’m outta here. I’m gonna get some fast food, a bird or something. Get out of here before I change my mind.
Why I can’t I be a dog? They all have some wolf in ‘em. Then, some nice person would feed me special recipes made just for me and I wouldn’t have to hunt. The opposite: They’d pet me, they'd rub my belly, hell, they'd let me sleep in the bed with them as long as I didn’t pee there.
Wishful thinking. I’m just a wolf, a big bad wolf. I’m consigned by my family of origin and hundreds of years of puerile fairy tales to be the bad guy: The Big Bad Wolf. Maybe I should see a shrink.
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