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.
“We’ve been small-time,” Vernon said, spitting a toothpick into the creek. “Knocking over bird feeders. Stealing picnic baskets. But that ends tonight. We’re going to pull the biggest score this forest has ever seen.” be prepared hoodwinked song
“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. From the mossy bank of the creek, the
“They have no idea what’s coming. But neither does Red. This is going to be fun to watch.” Tired of running from the pig detective with the badge