Big Bad Wolf

In the beginning was the wolf. A fearsome combination of ferocious vanity and utter incompetence, he was only ever a cypher. Existing to embody our unspoken fears while simultaneously assuaging them. He turned out to be a simpleton, bested by a schoolgirl, outwitted by those three giggling piglets.

So that was an unpromising beginning.

In the middle, though, the wolf believed. He bought into the hype. He believed he was the unspoken terror that lurks in the dark. He reckoned himself a cunning, creative villain. If he could have grown a moustache, he’d have given it a proper twirl while he cackled to himself. Dastardly, and unencumbered by Muttley.

And he sort-of had it. The plans were sound. The schoolgirl trotted alone through the forest. Those giggling piglets lived for the here-and-now, throwing together a hotchpotch home out of whatever came to hand. They should have been easy prey, running from parental protection and unable to draw a line from action to consequence. Schoolgirls skipped into the deep, dark woods, out of sight and far from rescue. They were supposed to be timid, biddable, vulnerable, Hood on a collision course with claw. In another life, our wolf knew what happened to anyone who didn’t stick to the road, who strayed across the moor.

We believed too. Or at least, we wanted to. We needed to believe that our wolf was a fearsome foe, a worthy opponent. A focus of justified fear. Otherwise, who were we? Afraid of the shadows, terrified of nothing. So we gasped at his great big teeth, cheered when he huffed and puffed, squealed when someone else’s house blew in. And, yes, we chortled as he tumbled down the chimney, straight into the pot over that blazing fire. But somehow it wrongfooted us, seeing a legitimate fear nullified so cheaply.

That's the sleight of hand. The wolf is grey, and life isn’t black-and-white either. He learned. He studied the markets. He saw that the way to gobble up giggling piglets was not to destroy, but to own. The plans changed. Now a lupine landlord, an architect of generation rent, his houses became our dungeons. Not deep, not dark, but almost impossible to escape.

Thanks for reading. This is a second entry in L.C. Shäfer's Fucked-up Fairytales microfiction contest running through April. My earlier attempt, Happy Ever After, made a fleeting reference to generation rent and I wanted to expand on that a little here.