A Short Story

The Story of the Three Western Pigs

By Autra Salarvand

Drawing by Jonas Gaulin, Grade 10

It was the year 1918, and the only way to prove one’s manhood was to have a Mexican standoff. In the middle of it all were three infamous pigs. The youngest of the three, Wimbledon, was a timid pork chop who trembled in his hooves when facing danger. He lived in a house far from any sort of peril at the very top of Lookout Hill. Normally, the narrator (me) would begin to explain how this pig had a house made of straw. Then along came a wolf to blow it down, something about a hairy chin, and finally the pig is gobbled up, the end. Fortunately, this isn’t that kind of a story.

Wimbledon was walking towards the town of Dustyville, and he was famished. He decided to make a stop in front of ‘The Dusty Glass,’ the most famous pub in the land.

“Give me your finest slop and a nice warm glass o’ milk.” Wimbledon professed to the waiter as he sat down at the bar. The waiter nodded then headed towards the back to fix Wimbledon's order.

After some time, Wimbledon finished his hearty meal and had had more than a bottle full of milk, but before he could leave he was rudely interrupted by the notorious wolf.

“Awooo,” howled the grey, shaggy, lanky, wolf, as he pushed open the doors to the pub. Almost instantly, his eyes fell upon Wimbledon and, licking his lips from ear to ear, he proceeded forward. He plopped himself down right next to Wimbledon, turning his stool to face him.

            “Hello, dear swine, I don’t believe we’ve met. I’m Nigel, and you are…?” He asked as he extended a paw.

“I-I’m Wim-Wim-Wimbledon.”  Stuttered the pig as he leaned forward to greet the wolf’s paw with his hoof.

Just as quickly as if paint was splashed across his face, the mood of the wolf changed, he now had hunger in his eyes. He brought his snout inches away from Wimbledon,

“Meet me outside,” he whispered.

“What-what-whatever for?” Wimbledon asked, wide-eyed.

“We’re having a Mexican standoff, awooo!” Nigel yowled heading outside, not leaving poor Wimbledon with any choice. Then he stopped curtly, turning around to face the shivering swine, “That is if you ain’t yeller.” He cackled, causing the whole pub to stare curiously.

“Um, n-not at-at all.” Wimbledon glanced throughout the pub, all eyes were on him. “But what have I done to be challenged to a duel?”

“I’m hungry for some bacon!” The wolf proclaimed, laughing, and then he headed outside without another word.

Wimbledon followed reluctantly - many people tipped their hats to him as if giving him a final send-off - with his hand on the gun buried in the holster. Sadly what our naïve and trusting friend, Wimbledon, did not know was that the devilish wolf was a dirty cheater. The second the pork stepped out into the hot desert sun, he was shot straight through his belly. Collapsing to the floor, holding onto his belly, he looked up.

“You cheater,” Wimbledon gasped.

Nigel prowled, meeting a dying Wimbledon on the sandy ground, and placed a paw on his chest. He increased the pressure of his paw on the pig’s velvety torso,

“Sorry, dear Wimbledon, I’m just so... hungry.” He said weighing each of his words and their meanings. And with that, he gobbled up poor ol’ Wimbledon.

The next day, news of the ridiculous battle between Nigel the wolf and Wimbledon the pig had spread throughout the town. The middle brother, Jedadiah, caught wind of the fiasco and was outraged. See, he was a naïve fool and believed his bacon-filled boasts would put the fear of god in his opponent, so he set out to find the antagonistic wolf. Kicking down the door to the pub, he found the wolf sitting at the bar with a smug smile on his face.

“Are you the one they call ‘Nigel’?” Jedadiah asked angrily.

“Yes, that is I. And to what do I owe the pleasure?” The slick wolf countered, while  raising an eyebrow to the meaty Jedadiah.

“I hereby challenge you to a duel, to avenge my brother;” he declared out loud, “Everyone here knows you cheated him!

“Me? I did no such thing!” Nigel huffed, flailing his arms around dramatically.

“I don’t believe you! The law states that you either agree to a duel or get ready to be called a ‘yeller’ for the rest of your darn life!” Jedadiah became unimpressed by the reserved wolf, “So do you agree or not?”

The wolf looked into Jedadiah’s eyes, as if searching for something, then rose off of his stool. “Awooo, let’s get out there and have us a duel!”

Nigel lead the way as Jedadiah followed with his head held high. As Jedadiah advanced into the dusty plains, he was greeted with a fast bullet to the stomach. He fell to the floor; utter shock spread across his face. Looking down, he saw a bloody hole through his centre.

Nigel strode towards the dying pig, “Never call me a cheat again,” he said with most seriously. Jedadiah became an exquisite meal for the wolf, and so fell another to his treachery.

The eldest of the threesome, Isaac, was a smart swine but also the most humble hog you’d ever hope to cross paths with. He decided to head from his brick house towards Dustyville, in search of the wolf whom he knew would most probably be within the pub. Pushing open the doors into the pub he saw Nigel at the bar, sweet talking Mrs. Hen; a wealthy aristocrat.

Tapping the shoulder of the wolf Isaac then asked, “Excuse me, but you wouldn't happen to be Nigel, would you?”

Spinning his stool around, Nigel appraised the pig, not too pleased with what he saw. Isaac was the fittest of the three, and to Nigel’s dismay he was also the thinnest.  “What can I do you for, my friendly pork dumpling?”

“I would like to carry out the retribution of both of my brothers and duel you,” He stated professionally.

“How many of you are there? Should I just expect this from now on?” The wolf asked, looking around as if expecting to see an entire army of pigs.

“I am the last of my family and I don’t think you should be expecting anything, anytime soon.” Isaac professed to Nigel, solemnly.

“Fine, let us get this over with then. I am tired and wish to put this all behind me” Nigel bellowed.

“You go on, I shall meet you outside, I must first freshen up.” Isaac said curtly, waving at Nigel and then heading towards the bathroom.

The wolf chuckled at this, “That’s fine, you go ahead. What a pansy.” Nigel said, whispering the last part to himself.

The wolf headed out as Isaac made his way to the washroom, “Let's see…” Isaac thought, looking around the bathroom. He saw a window and began to climb through it. He made his way from the back of the pub, around to the side, stalking to the front very gradually. His eyes fell upon the wolf, standing with his gun aim towards the door, hammer pulled downwards; waiting.

Isaac pulled out his revolver, pointed it at the wolf, and cocked the hammer down, finally squeezing the trigger. All the crows of Dustyville sped towards the heavens at the sound of the gunshot, racing away from danger; the same could not be said about the wolf.

“You bastard,” Wheezed the wolf, clutching at the wound at his side, “You ruined my coat and my dignity as a wolf.”

“No, dear Nigel, you did that on your own. Next time, stick to the rules. But let’s face it; there won’t be a next time for you.” And with that, the wolf expired.

Isaac trotted off for the sun, with a big ol’ sack, excited for the night’s menu.