Three Little Pigs Redux

In the cave where three little pigs live is an upside-down four-legged pup tent inflated by deep snores.

A little cub crawls under and fumbles along the wall, feeling for a make-believe light switch. His untrimmed nails scrape over the unpainted surface like a steel rake across chalkboard. He hesitates, unsure of his bearings until further down the dusky corridor, an old Coleman lamp shines weakly above a straw door, beckoning him to go toward.

Thick air whistling through the creaky outer stick frame carries the sound of music being played from the hills above, tiny children's voices humming in chorus; so curious, he rings the bell impatiently twice.

How strange that no one answers right away as the melody continues. Because what lies on the other side could be someone being held captive against their will, calling out for help.

Without warning, contorted fingers suddenly cast shadows that huff and puff yet bend like a reed in the wind unlike the werewolf disguised as Mister Haney atop the headboard who leaps into the void, a boiling cauldron of shrimp dumpling noodle soup made from pork stock since early morning.

Startled, the cub burns his tongue slurping the piping hot broth and trips backward off the rickety stool, knocking loose two front baby teeth. His eyes aswirl, he sandwiches the Oriental rug over his furry body as a deep slumber falls upon him like a crumbling brick wall.

Overnight, the tooth fairy now an obvious favorite leaves a five dollar bill in recompense for his lower incisor---fair market value that certain Okinawans of Basque descent decry.

What a shame he swallowed the other.