The Moral of the Story

The guard leading me into the room gives a hard yank on the chain. Pain lances through my neck, and I snarl, baring my impressive fangs for full effect. He shies away, naked fear on his face, before remembering which of us is supposed to be the prisoner.

“Watch it, mutt, or you’ll be drinking out of the toilet through a wired jaw,” he says, his tough-guy tone betrayed by the quaver in his voice and the stink of fear in his scent.

I snort in contempt. “Oh, please, CO. We both know who’s afraid of the Big Bad Wolf.”

His expression hardens, mouth tightening into a white line. One hand drops to the baton sheathed at his waist.

“That will do, Officer,” a new voice says. “I’ll ask you to do your job without further violating my client’s civil rights.”

I look past the guard and his impotent rage to see a man sitting at the lone table in the room. The space is dimly lit, a single flickering fluorescent bulb recessed in the ceiling behind a grating, but I’ve got good eyesight. The guy’s so short his legs barely clear the edge of the chair. I take in his expensive suit, immaculately groomed hair, and a face so wrinkled and wizened it looks like a prune staked out in the desert for a week. He smells of cologne, silk, a hint of moldy straw, and…

Huh. That’s curious. No fear. Not a hint of that very familiar scent. Interesting. That must mean he’s either stupid… or a villain.

Like me.

The guard secures my chain to a ring on the floor, giving me just enough play to reach my side of the table, then snaps a padlock on it with a loud click. He then steps back to stand against the wall.

The short man’s eyes, small, dark, and hard behind wire-rim glasses, flick to the guard. “Leave me alone with my client, if you please.”

“Not a good idea, buddy,” the guard says, glancing at me. “You know who this is, right?”

“Of course I do,” the man snaps. “I also know the privileges that exist between the accused and his legal representation. Now, must I ask again?”

The guard scowls, shakes his head, and leaves, slamming the door shut behind him. The lock on the door clicks loudly, too.

I casually stretch as much as I can with the chain and collar, give a shake to fluff out my thick, gray fur. “Client, eh? Funny, I don’t remember hiring a lawyer.”

The faintest of smiles ghosts across the man’s face. “You haven’t. Yet. But I’m certain you’ll want to retain my services after you hear what I have to say.”

“Why’s that?” I ask in the most bored tone I can manage.

“Because I can make sure that you don’t spend the rest of your life behind bars.”

I can’t help it; my ears prick up at that. I force a derisive snort. “Not likely. They have a pretty good case against me.”

“And that is precisely why you want me to represent you.” A positively oily grin stretches his lips. “Allow me to introduce myself.” Two fingers extend to place a business card on the table between us.

I glance down at it. ‘Mr. R, Attorney at Law, Specialist in Defense of the Wrongly Accused’. The black letters stand out against the crisp white, cutting across a spinning wheel picked out in gold foil. Yeah, it’s a dead giveaway.

“Mr. R? That’d be short for…”

He raises a small hand to stop me before I can say it. “I would prefer if we kept this from being a first name relationship.” Yellowed teeth glint as he grins again.

“Okay,” I say with a flick of an ear. “Lawyer, now, huh? Previous line of work didn’t suit you?”

“Let’s just say that it was far too… labor intensive. I find my new career to be much more rewarding. It also didn’t require much of an adjustment, ethically speaking. So, Mr. R it is for now. For that matter, what would you like me to call you?”

I shrug, a human gesture I’ve perfected over the years. “Most people just scream ‘Wolf!’ and run away when they see me.”

“I see. Then I shall address you as Mr. Wolf, for simplicity’s sake.”

“Whatever.”

“Now,” Mr. R settles himself in his hard wooden chair. “I’m familiar with the particulars of your case, Mr. Wolf, at least those that have been made publicly available. But perhaps you’d like to tell me your side of the story?”

Now I actually laugh. “My side of the story? Not a lot of people are interested in that. As far as most of them are concerned, there’s only ever one side. The one where I’m the villain, just out to do villain things. It’s just how the story goes.”

“So you don’t deny the charges?”

“Well now, Mr. R, that’d be telling, wouldn’t it? I may be facing the headsman’s axe or life in a cage, but I don’t see any reason to make it easier on everyone.”

“Mr. Wolf, we in the legal profession are required to keep our client’s confidence, and cannot be compelled to reveal what is told us in confidence.”

“Okay.” Whether he’s telling the truth or not, I find I just don’t care. “Well, yeah, I did it. Whatever they say, I did it all.”

Mr. R removes his glasses, pulls out a kerchief, and starts polishing the lenses. “You stalked young Peter and his friends, and attempted to murder a… duck, I believe?”

I pretend to wince. “Yeah. Got so close, but she was just that lucky…” I sigh. “I can still taste feathers.”

“And you destroyed the property of three industrious pigs?”

“Hey, not my fault if their houses weren’t up to code. Course, then they tried to burn me alive. Lost a lot of fur on that one.”

“Then you actually consumed a young lady and her grandmother?”

I give a little laugh. “And the grandmother’s cat. Not too many people remember that part. But I kinda missed out on the satisfaction of a good meal in the end. After I woke up on the riverbank, went through three surgeries to get all the rocks out of my belly, and spent six months in that stupid plastic cone… well, let’s just say that a certain woodsman is next on the menu if I ever get out of here.”

Mr. R finishes cleaning his glasses, sets them back in place, all without batting an eye. “I see. So, you are guilty. And I must assume that the police have all the evidence they need, since you are sitting here before me, chained to the floor.”

I pull back my lips in a grin. Or a snarl. Hard for me to tell the difference when I’m doing it. “Like I said. I’m the villain. I do bad things. No matter how the story goes, that’s always how it ends. It’s the… oh, what do they call it? The moral. That’s right. The moral of the story. Bad people do bad things.”

Mr. R arches one scraggly eyebrow. “What if I told you the story doesn’t have to end that way?”

I cock my head to one side. “How’s that?”

“Mr. Wolf, my job doesn’t necessarily consist of proving you innocent,” Mr. R says. “Not when I can make you into a victim instead of a villain.”

“Say what?”

“That’s right, Mr. Wolf. Instead of making this about your crime, we can make it about you. We’ll play up your tragic past, your difficult upbringing. Why, you said it yourself, people look at you and see nothing more than a scary animal. That’s prejudice. It’s colored your entire life, hasn’t it?”

“Uh,” is all I manage to get out in reply. Honestly, I’d never thought about it like that.

“Do you have a mate?” Mr. R asks suddenly. “Pups? A pack that relies on you? Needs you?”

“What? No, nothing like that.” I give my head a shake, trying to wrap my head around all this. “Are you saying that you can make it look like I was… the victim instead of the villain?”

“Exactly, Mr. Wolf.” Now his grin looks positively evil. “We’ll put you in front of the cameras, paint you a tragic victim of circumstances and biases. All that’s required is the right spin on the facts. And, believe me, Mr. Wolf, I know how to put the right spin on things.”

“No doubt.” All of this is confusing. And, well, kinda disgusting. “Look, why go through all that? Just post my bail and I’ll skip town, how about?” I’m only half joking.

Again he arches that eyebrow. “To go on the run? To be hunted and hounded the rest of your life?”

Now I grin. “I’m the Big Bad Wolf, remember? What you just described, that’s my normal.”

“It doesn’t have to be,” says Mr. R. “When I’m through, you’ll spend a few months in prison, after which you’ll be set up for life. A comfortable den. Plenty of game to hunt. Even your own woods, if you want. No one will dare bother you again. With enough positive media coverage, I can work out a very favorable deal for you. Deals are… something of a specialty for me. Now, how’s that sound?”

I stare at him, narrowing my eyes. “What do you get out of this, Mr. R? Something tells me you’re not doing it out of the kindness of your heart.”

He gives a short laugh. “Oh, goodness no. You see, in the process of rewriting the narrative, there will be interviews, televised appearances, at least one book deal. That means money, Mr. Wolf. Rather a lot of money.” His oily grin reappears. “And I get fifty percent.”

Oh, now that’s disgusting. Sickening. He wants me to lie about what I am, pretend to be something I’m not. A victim. A weak, pathetic, mewling victim. And all so he can exploit my villainy for cash…

“I don’t know,” I say. “It all sounds like a big lie to me.”

“And you’ve never lied before?” Something about his tone of voice, so cocky and superior, makes my hackles rise. Literally. “I seem to recall one of the charges is ‘impersonating a little old lady?’ That’s rather dishonest, don’t you think?”

I growl deep in my throat. “I like to think of it as deceptive. A predator has to be cunning, after all.”

“Indeed. Come now, Mr. Wolf, let’s stop bandying words.” He lifts a briefcase onto the table, snaps it open, and produces a gold fountain pen with a flourish. “You just sign these documents, and I’ll get started turning you into the tragic victim.”

A victim. Me. I’m a villain. I made the choices that made me a villain, and to be honest, I never really regretted it until I got caught. If not for that woodsman, I’d still be out there, stalking Peter and his friends, blowing down pigs’ houses, and looking for my next Little Red Riding Hood. But then, look where being the villain has gotten me: in this room, with a scumbag who wants me to lie, tell people a sob story, deny what I am just so I won’t be punished for the wrong I’ve done, and he can make a lot of money.

I think ‘Mr. R’ is a worse villain than I am.

And he’s definitely not the kind of villain I want to be.

“Now let’s get this straightened out,” I say, the words coming out from behind bared fangs. “I’m a villain. I know I’m a villain; I own that. I’d rather just accept that I’ve done wrong, and take what I’ve got coming.”

Mr. R purses his lips like he’s tasted something really sour. “Mr. Wolf, please be reasonable—”

“I think you’d better get out of here, ‘Mr. R’, before I start naming names. Or I could just gobble you up. Your pick.”

“Mr. Wolf—”

I lunge forward, straining the chain to its limits. Planting my forepaws on the table, I let out a savage bark, jaws snapping, spattering drool all over Mr. R’s nice suit and shiny glasses. He lurches backwards, tumbling out of the chair, briefcase and pen flying across the room. A second later he scrambles back to his feet, staring at me, eyes wide, and darts for the door.

Now I smell it. The fear. Its stink is thick and rank. I guess he really isn’t stupid.

With one hand on the doorknob, he pauses, glancing back at me. “You know they will never stop seeing you as a villain. They will hunt and persecute you, no matter what you do.”

“Maybe so,” I reply, suddenly tired of this whole thing. “But maybe I’ve earned that. Maybe if I want that to change, I need to show them that I can change, too.” I shrug. “So, even though I’m the villain in this story, maybe I can still do the right thing.

“Maybe that’s the moral of the story.”