Once upon a wretched time, there were three thousand little piggies. There was only one wolf. He wasn't particularly big and he wasn't really bad. But he was proud and he was determined. For the good of all wolfkind, the piggies had to die. The wolf was alone in this and he was hunted, but he wasn't afraid. Or at least he overcame his fear because killing the piggies was what he felt was right. The wolf killed many piggies and some of the other farm animals felt good about that. Alas, the wolf was caught by hunters working closely with the piggies and was put down. Unfortunately for the piggies, he left plenty of offspring. They say his last words were: "My soul will not rest until the entrails of the last piggy are tightly coiled around the throat of the last hunter".
This calls for a celebration.
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