“I don’t believe in fairytales,” he grumbled over the lip of his pint. Already drowning in the liquid, as this wasn’t his first drink.
Hell, it wasn’t even his second, or third.
It was his fifteenth.
I swear, that wolf can really put ’em away.
“I don’ believe in ’em, ya hear me?” He growled, his claws digging into the metal.
“Aye, I hear ya. Drink that up bud, and then be on your way. The hunters will be out soon.”
“Hrggh,” he grumbled.
But he did as he was told. Bless his tired, drunk soul.
Sitting up, he tipped his drink all the way back. Guzzling it like a pro, very little sloshing out the sides of his snout.
When it was gone, he slammed it down like any lad would, wiped his face-fur on his sleeve, threw a few coins down, saluted, and then stumbled his way out the door.
“Is he always like that?” the kid at the bar asked as the wolf tumbled into the night.
I shrugged. “Just when he stumbles across kids in red hoods.”
“What’s he mean, he don’t believe in fairytales?”
I shrugged. Pretended not to know. Then went about my business. Cleaning mugs, refilling drinks.
It was dishonest of me, sure, but.
It wasn’t really my place to tell the kid that the Big Bad Wolf doesn’t believe in himself.
Was it? Continue reading “Falling To Fate”