Over the River and through the Woods

Granny was sitting on the porch of her bungalow in her dice-covered mumu and ever-present hairnet, smoking her Juul. Living off her first husband’s pension and her grandaughter’s good graces. Toothpick hanging from snarling lips, B.B. Wolfe pulled up in his rusty Charger. He fondled the gun resting deep in the pocket of the houndstooth jacket he’d taken off a deadbeat pimp, who owed him fifty grand. Took his over-dressed pinky, too. B.B. ensured all debts were paid somehow, and he’d found a way for Granny to finally pay hers.

Granny clicked off her little television set, “What you doing here, B.B.? I ain’t ready to place any bets. Unless you got a line I don’t know about.”

“I don’t even know why you’re still making bets, Granny. You’ve lost more money on the spread than on your last two husbands.”

“Careful how you talk to me. My grandaughter’s on her way with a basket of goodies. Wouldn’t want me to start telling any tales, would you?”

“You can tell her anything you want. Make up a whole fucking fairy tale. I’d say go for a fable, but you don’t have any morals. I know Little Red is on her way. That’s why I’m here.”

“You hoping to share Granny’s edibles? You ain’t man enough to share anything of mine. At least, that’s what Little Red says. Even with that hairy ass of yours. So you crawl back into that rustbucket and go back to hiding in the Woods until I can’t find a better bookie to take my money. The Woods, home of the stupid and the poor. It’s right where you belong.”

“No. Out in the Woods, if you were ever brave enough to visit, it’s not the poor and the stupid you’d find. It’s the desperate and the dangerous.”

He presses the gun against her stomach, cinching the mumu at the waist, and pushes her inside. B.B. smirks at the decor of a degenerate gambler. Half a collection of china, a foldout chair and table where a six-piece used to sit, and another piece of crap T.V. covered in waves of green. A nice juxtaposition with the yellowing wallpaper. Grabbing a threadbare pillow from the couch, lying about Home Sweet Home, he forces her into the bedroom and straight to the en suite. Granny stutters at first, begging and cajoling, then snaps out deathly promises. B.B. kicks her into the tub and fires through the pillow. A wine-red stain spreads out from her stomach, covering her in bloody dice. He sits on the edge of the tub, watches blood circle the drain, and pulls out his phone, setting a reminder to get his oil changed.

Outside, he hears a car door close, then another ten or so seconds later. Little Red and her driver. B.B. grabs another mumu from the closet, covered in coyotes howling at the moon, and slaps on a hairnet before crawling into Granny’s bed, waiting for his next prey to walk through the door and into his waiting jaws.

Little Red knocks lightly on the front door, and she pushes it open. At five-four, with a shock of short red hair poking out from beneath her matching hood, she is both striking and disarming. Carrying her basket of goodies and a toothy smile, she is the perfect doting granddaughter. A large man clad in plaid stands outside, arms thicker than most of her body. She puts a firm hand on his chest.

“Wait out there for me, hon. Me and Grandma need some girl time.”

She eyes the familiar worn-out furniture and the too-familiar dishes in the sink. Lingering on the couch, she ran her fingers over the armrest. Remembered the days when she’d sit on the couch trying out needlepoint while Granny called in a bet and her latest beau shot back a beer and leered at her pre-teen body. So many leches, so many bodies to hide.

“Grandma, where are you? I figured you’d be on the porch, vaping. Maybe have a beer ready for me.”

A high-pitched voice, crackling in between coughs, calls out, “I’m not feeling too good, sweetie. Can’t get out of bed. Why don’t you come back here and visit?”

Little Red slowly opens the door, basket in front of her. B.B. holds the gun under the sheets, slippery with sweat. Soon, no one would make fun of B.B. Wolfe again. First Little Red, then that Neanderthal Woodsman. Everyone would beg him to run the pack. Every -

BAM!

“My, my, Grandma, what big eyes you have.”

B.B. looked down at the coyotes howling at blood-red moons. Little Red held the gun close to her face, sniffing the barrel.

“Poor, little wolf man. Did you really think this would work? You’re no alpha, just a mangy mutt. Granny was such a sweet old broad. A little hard on the bottom line. So thank you for getting rid of her. You saved me a lot of effort and guilt. Good night, sweet doggy, may you dream of bitches you can handle.”

She skipped to the door and let her bodyguard in. They called him the Woodsman, for how easily he chopped up and disposed of the bodies Little Red left behind.

“Both?”

“No, Grandma deserves a proper funeral. The last chunk of change I’ll spend on the old broad. When you’re done, make sure everyone knows who killed this Big Bad Wolf wannabe and that no one finds his hirsute body. Dear God, that man could have used a laser treatment. Or four. Check-in with me later. It’s time to make a few moves.”

Grabbing a muffin from the basket - she was grieving the death of her beloved grandma, after all - she left the Woodsman to his task. She’d run everything soon enough, from the Three Rivers neighborhoods to the Woods. Once she took care of those three little misogynist pigs hiding out in Haywood, nothing would stand in her way. Lighting a blunt to go with her muffin (again, grieving), she huffed and puffed and dreamed of blowing them all away. And then she would live happily ever after.