Bon Appetiting on Sauvignon Blanc and tiramisu. Little Red sits alone on a stump in
solitude of a wood. Sweetest girls chaperone a weapon. Sits she, Little Red: a worn slump of disladily spread-eagled so menstruation wafts cursively in cerise. Clots cherry her pubic hair in red cement. These thighs no cotton can tame.

     The wolf: stumbledrunkedly is patriarchy on four, furred legs. He’s ecstasies on Little
Red’s pubescent secretions and dreams of fallopian tubes to muzzle his snout. Little Red’s lips guzzle the Sauvignon Blanc. She burps. The tiramisu is detonated in omnivoric grace. Woozies is what wine and mascarpone give but Little Red smells like cracked peppercorn, not plum compote.