From the mossy bank of the creek, the wolf in a cheap newsboy cap—the one the cops called “The Big Bad”—was pacing. His name was Vernon, and he was tired. Tired of being the fall guy. Tired of running from the pig detective with the badge. Tired of the way the forest whispered his name like a curse.
“All right, listen up,” Vernon growled, snapping his claws. A dozen mismatched forest creatures shuffled closer: raccoons with masks pulled down, a weasel with a nervous twitch, three chipmunks who couldn’t stop giggling. Flick stayed in the branches above, taking notes. He was the only one who brought a pencil. be prepared hoodwinked song
The chipmunks started humming a jaunty tune. Flick wrote: “Phase four? We’ve never reached Phase three in any plan ever.” From the mossy bank of the creek, the
He smiled, sharpened his pencil, and waited. Tired of running from the pig detective with the badge
Vernon pointed a claw toward the distant clock tower of the woodland town. “The Schnitzelhausen Annual Baking Competition is tomorrow. First prize: a solid gold rolling pin and enough cash to buy our own mountain. But here’s the thing—we don’t bake. We steal .”