The WolfCon Gambit

By John Leatherman

“For too long, the pigs have slammed the door on us wolves. They’ve got us by the chinny-chin-chin!” Burly gray wolf Bigsby Badham paces the stage in a huff before a towering jumbotron showing the rotating logo of his company, Wolf Works. “But this is the year we blow them away!”

The auditorium erupts with clapping, tail wagging, and howling. Lots of howling. It’s as if he’d just introduced a partnership with the full moon.

From my back row seat, I give a few performative claps. Squirrels aren’t much for howling, and my bushy, distinctly non-lupine tail wreaths my midsection, concealed under a navy blue uniform bedecked with scouting badges.

Thanks to a tipster known only as Basket Case, the pigs learned the secret location of WolfCon, where Bigsby is the keynote speaker. They’ve sent me to exact their counterstrike. With my short stature and a wolf mask, I pass as an eager young Pup Scout exploring career options. Nobody asks to see my forged visitor badge.

Bigsby continues. “The pig threat has never been greater. We’ve flooded the market with cheap sticks and straw and still pigs have us hitting the bricks. But now we’ll have the upper paw.” He yanks a black veil from a stand at center stage, revealing a colorful pill bottle. “The Brick Buster puff-ormance enhancing supplement will ensure you’ll be the last wolf standing.”

Tapping his remote, he gestures to the towering video screen, where a CG wolf in a Wolf Works tee takes two Brick Busters and reduces a brick wall to rubble with one breath. Tiny, barely perceptible white letters flash along the bottom: SIMULATION—RESULTS NOT TYPICAL.

Bigsby pauses the video. “With Brick Buster, one huff is enough! Cynical trials are underway, and I plan to have it on the market by fall!”

After more applause and baying, Bigsby takes a bow and delivers his trademark mantra. “Thank you, and remember, you may not be big, but you can always be bad!”

As he exits into the wings backstage, I charge out the rear of the auditorium. If I time this right, I can catch him in the brief window of vulnerability just before he leaves. I scurry through the main exhibit hall past vendor booths for Goodie Grabber extendable claws and Wonder Wool sheep costumes, out the main exit and around to the loading dock just as Bigsby emerges from the secure tunnel to his waiting limo.

Trying to sound innocent, I approach him. “Mister Badham? You’re my idol. When I get big, I want to be just like you.”

Bigsby scoffs. “That’s nice. Listen, kid, I already did my time at the autograph table.” He taps his key fob, and the passenger door slides open. “So, until you’re old enough to buy my products…”

I rip off my wolf mask and pounce onto Bigsby, throttling him onto the bench seat inside the limo. Antler-handled knife drawn, I prod at his throat and close the door. “Phezz Maplebark doesn’t want an autograph from you unless it’s in blood.”

The frosted-glass partition drops, and the she-wolf chauffeur gasps. “What the—?”

I sneer at her. “Driver, we’re going to Stysboro—or at least his head is. The pigs will pay me either way.”

Sighing, Bigsby gives her a weary nod. “Do as he says, Nasta Lee.”

As Nasta Lee leaves the city gates of Wolfuquerque, the sun setting behind us, I snicker. “Relax, Bigsby. The pigs will give you a fair trial. No promises on the jury, though!”

***

After forty miles of dark, lawless highway, Stysboro looms on the horizon.

Still two miles from the turnoff for the Porksmouth Pike Parkway, the limo slows to a halt. A grin spreads across Bigsby’s whiskered snout.

Frowning, I prod the tip of my knife deeper into his neck. “What’s happening?”

He says nothing, a sinister glint emanating from his ochre eyes.

Windowless black vans block our vehicle in front and behind. A voice-altering loudspeaker on the front van blasts forth. “We have you surrounded. You have one minute to come out with your paws up!”

Bigsby snickers. “Nasta Lee isn’t just my driver. She’s my head of security, and she summoned my Extract Pack. Twenty battle-trained furcenaries are about to storm this limo.” He locks eyes with me. “I know you’re not a real Pup Scout, but surely you understand being prepared.”

Staring back and forward at the vans, I ponder the implications. “Twenty militant wolves.” I look at Bigsby. “You can’t call them off?”

“They will only leave with me.” Bigsby straightens up. “Now, I’ve seen how fast you are. If you leave now, you just might be able to escape.”

I stow my knife in its bandolier. “Yes, I am fast.” Removing my Pup Scout uniform and unwrapping my tail, I uncover a metallic belt lined with wires and canisters. “Fast enough to outrun this bomb.”

Bigsby gulps.

I undo the buckle and set it on the floor. “Once your detail gets close enough…” I hold up the remote detonator and wink. “Well, they’ll leave with you.”

Black-suited figures swarm the limo. Preparing to smash through the window and hit the detonator, I hesitate.

They look short for wolves…

I slide the door open.

A stout, squat pig in tactical gear stomps into the limo. “Bigsby Badham, you’re under arrest for crimes against hamanity.”

I click the disarm button in disbelief. It’s the Swine Crew—a special weapons division of the Pork Force!

Two curly-tailed lieutenants handcuff an incredulous Bigsby. “I don’t understand… Nasta Lee was supposed to call…”

As the pigs usher him out, Nasta Lee pats my shoulder. “I liked your mask, Phezz.” Pulling at her snout, she yanks her entire wolf head off, revealing she is a wispy-haired elderly lady. “But mine’s more convincing.”

I gasp. “Basket Case?”

She nods. “Miriel Takkenridge, special agent of the Granny Brigade.” She extends a wolf-paw-gloved hand. “We’re also committed to the anti-wolf cause. Let’s work together.”

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

John Leatherman writes fiction, humor, and the monthly “Word Weasel” grammar column for Word Weavers International. He has won or placed in numerous writing contests. He has written book reviews for Christian Retailing, scripts for Shoestring Radio Theatre, and word games for International Puzzle Syndicate. A freelance writer, editor, cartoonist, and puzzle designer, Mr. Leatherman maintains a secret identity as a Central Florida software consultant with two kids.

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