“They have no idea what’s coming. But neither does Red. This is going to be fun to watch.”
The chipmunks started humming a jaunty tune. Flick wrote: “Phase four? We’ve never reached Phase three in any plan ever.”
Flick scribbled: “Big score. Possibly delusional.” be prepared hoodwinked song
But Vernon wasn’t listening. He was already pacing again, arms wide, voice rising like a bad community theater villain. “Because when we’re done, they’ll know our names. Not ‘The Big Bad Wolf’—no. They’ll say, ‘That’s Vernon, the wolf who finally had the sense to be prepared.’”
From the mossy bank of the creek, the wolf in a cheap newsboy cap—the one the cops called “The Big Bad”—was pacing. His name was Vernon, and he was tired. Tired of being the fall guy. Tired of running from the pig detective with the badge. Tired of the way the forest whispered his name like a curse. “They have no idea what’s coming
The raccoons exchanged nervous glances. The weasel whispered, “But who’s the target?”
Vernon grinned, and it wasn’t a nice grin. “Red Puckett. That little girl with the basket. She delivers the grand prize entry to the judges every year. And this year, her granny’s recipe is the one to beat. So we intercept the basket. Swap the real strudel with a fake. Then we claim the prize.” Flick wrote: “Phase four
“All right, listen up,” Vernon growled, snapping his claws. A dozen mismatched forest creatures shuffled closer: raccoons with masks pulled down, a weasel with a nervous twitch, three chipmunks who couldn’t stop giggling. Flick stayed in the branches above, taking notes. He was the only one who brought a pencil.