Little Miss Chaperon-Rouge
Shortly before sunset, deep in the French forest of Abrac, little Miss Chaperon-Rouge skipped between the trees, singing a merry song. She was a pretty and melodic young lady, and over her right arm she carried the basket of bread and cakes she was taking to her grandmother.
She loved going to Granny's, even if her cottage was remote. The old woman was so kind, so gentle, and always had something nice to give her. What would she get tonight? she wondered.
The girl's lilting song reached the ears of a huntsman further up the path. Frowning, he stopped walking and waited for the chanteuse to catch up.
"Oh monsieur, you startled me!" Miss Chaperon-Rouge exclaimed the second she laid eyes on him. But she wasn't startled in the least. The huntsman was a handsome young stud in a tailored black frock coat and snug grey breeches, with a knapsack and musket slung across his back.
"Sorry, mam'selle," the huntsman said, doffing his tricorn hat, "but you should keep to the main path through these woods. Straying among the trees on these byways, the beasts of the forest will hear you, and some you do NOT want to meet."
Smitten, Miss Chaperon-Rouge stared at the young man in front of her. Well, more specifically his well-packed breeches... Smiling seductively (she was a pretty but sadly immoral young lady), she said, "The forest doesn't scare me, monsieur. And straying from the path can be quite exciting. If you and I were to step into those bushes, for instance - for three francs, shall we say? - you'll discover that for youself." She looked at him hopefully.
"I'm afraid not," the huntsman answered, his eyes fixed on the slowly rising moon. "The law in these parts forbids such a thing. I should be whipped if it were discovered I had done so." And in the blink of an eye he vanished back into the forest.
"Well screw you!" yelled Miss Chaperon-Rouge. Digging into her basket, she grabbed hold of the loaf of bread she was taking to Granny and hurled it after him. "I hope you get eaten by wolves, you cockless bastard!" (She was a pretty but horribly bad-tempered young lady.)
Muttering under her breath, and casting filthy looks over her shoulder, she marched off, munching on one of Granny's cakes.
Eaten by wolves... That had almost happened, the huntsman thought, as he laid down his musket and removed his hat. Last winter, when the snow lay deep on the ground, a starving pack had pursued him through the forest. Only his quick wits and tree-climbing skills had saved him.
But not without injury...
Carefully he picked up the loaf of fresh bread, brushed off a couple of dead leaves, and put it in his knapsack. He'd take it to the old woman later. Now, it was time to hunt...
Pissed-off Miss Chaperon-Rouge had eaten all but two of the scrumptious cakes by the time she reached Granny's cottage. (She was a pretty but exceedingly greedy young lady.) Looking at the basket, she frowned and then stuffed it in the woodpile. Well, what was the point? No loaf and only two cakes... Well one actually - she'd just crammed its partner into her mouth.
Wiping the moist, sticky crumbs from her lips, she rapped on the cottage door, calling called out loudly and sweetly, "Don't worry, Granny. It's only me..."
Moaning, the huntsman stripped off his muslin shirt, his coat and boots already discarded. Never before had he had to hunt like this, but now...since the wolf bite... Barefoot and half-naked, he raised his sweating face to the moon.
Smarmy Miss Chaperon-Rouge sat beside Granny's bed, holding the old lady's hand as she dozed. The girl's eyes travelled around the cottage, noting the empty bookcases and shelves, the absence of books and ornaments of any kind. Had she really taken THAT MUCH? she thought. (She was a pretty but criminally covetous young lady.) Still, there was always Granny's coin-box...
"RRRRRrrrrrrr," he growled as the fur sprang forth, the exact same shade as his breeches. "AHHHHHH...AHHHHRRRRRRR," he snarled as fingers and toes grew claws...
The old woman looked on with frightened eyes. She couldn't speak - the gag in her mouth prevented that. Nor could she move, bound hand and foot to the bed. All she could do was watch, petrified, as her red-caped granddaughter took both of her iron knitting needles and plunged them into the fire. (You see, Miss Chaperon-Rouge was not only pretty, but an extremely RESOURCEFUL young lady.)
"Uffffffff.....UNNNNNFFFFFFF," he snorted through his expanding, fang-filled muzzle. "AAAAAWOOOOOOOOO!!" he howled as his tail tore a hole in his pants...
Psycho bitch Chaperon-Rouge (she was a pretty but certifiably insane young lady) slowly approached the bed, one glowing knitting needle in each double-gloved hand. "So where IS it...Granny?" she hissed, yanking down the gag. "Where's the fucking MONEY??!!"
CRASH!!!
The door almost came off its hinges;
The torturer went to her grave,
Sliced up by a wolfman in breeches,
And Granny's life savings were saved!