Once upon a time, in the village of London, in a cozy council flat, there lived a young boy called Little Red Raymond Hood. (The author has it on good authority that the appelation "Red" in no way reflects on Raymond's political affiliations, but rather on the colour of his eyes, due to same nasty nocturnal habits... but that's another story. The author would also like to paint out that "Hood" refers to his habit. (in case you missed it, that was a pun.) As for "Little" -- well, not for nothing is his code number 4.5.)

I digress. Raymond lived with his mother, known far and wide as The Widow Doyle (or Sweet Fanny Doyle, the working-man's friend), and a succession of new fathers (Fanny was a thoughtful mother) and a number of pets with beady red eyes, so needless to say, it was a little crowded in their one cozy room. Anyway, one day, Raymond, tired of playing hide-and-go-seek with his pets, and dodging fathers as they came through in a steady stream (that phrase was in the nature of a pun, but not a pun proper. Call it a play an words... and consider--is a pun ever proper?) (where was I?) Oh yeah, so Raymond decided to go visit his ailing grandfather, old Cowley Doyle, who he liked only marginally better than the string of new fathers, who seemed to be coming thick and fast these days (that's.... oh, never mind). So he packed a basket full of goodies, like rat tart and rat-liver pate, and set off to old Cowley's hovel in the dark warrens of CI5 (which is something like a cross between the M6, Epping forest, and an asylum).

As he entered the dark, forbidding maze of C15, young Raymond felt a shiver of apprehension. He walked down the path toward's Cowley's hovel which was at the very heart of CI5, looking to the right and to the left, watching the grim shadows as they moved in tiny cubby holes. Raymond shuddered to think of what went on in those places.

Suddenly, a figure sprang out of the gloom and into Raymond's path. "Hey, beautiful, where you headed?" It was Bodie, the big, bad wolf. (I obviously don't mean wolf in the literal sense. I mean, literal wolves can't can speak, can they? Of course, if they're literal, they can read and write, I suppose, so if the big, bad wolf had been a literal wolf, he could have made a sign that said, "Hey, beautiful, where you headed?" Anyway, I just wanted you to know... that he wasn't a real wolf, in the literal sense, anyhow. He was a figurative wolf. They're good at figures. (That was a pun too. I don't want anyone to miss these things.))

"Sod off," Raymond replied with his usual politeness.

"Is that any way to treat a strangers" the wolf asked with a downcast expression. He was thinking seriously of eating Raymond, but decided not to because of the presence of faggot-makers in the forest. (Lissen, I'm not making this up, you know. Read the original if you don't believe me... or if you want a real downer of a read.) "What you have in that lovely basket of yours?"

"Which one?" Raymond asked, ever the cheeky devil.

"I know what's in the... slightly smaller one," the wolf replied, licking his lips. "I was curious about the wicker one."

"Goodies... for my grandfather, old Cowley Doyle. Rat tart, rat pate, mousse of rat with whiskey and rat truffle..."

"Don't suppose you'd like to share?"

Raymond pulled a gun by way of demurring. "Okay, okay," the wolf said, backing away. "See you around, Sunshine." He loped off into a long dark corridor.

Raymond went on his way.

Later, he came across a hunter sitting under a flowering hatrack -- tall, good-looking Irish sort by the name of Murphy, (I thought about letting Murph be a faggot-maker, but I mean, really... ) who greeted him politely and asked wither Raymond was going.

"To visit Old Cowley Doyle, my grandfather." Raymond fluttered his eyelashes which were of considerable length, though not so long as the wolf's (There's an element of sour grapes here, if you ask me.) and curled nicely. "But I could be persuaded to rest a while under the shade of your hatrack."

The hunter smiled.

The brief encounter described above (okay, okay, so I didn't really describe it. Hang in there.) gave the big bad wolf just the chance he needed. He raced through the gloomy maze, up to the door of Cowley's hovel-cum-office and rapped on the door.

"Yes? what is it?" Cowley asked.

"lt's your grandson, Little Red Raymond Hood," the wolf replied. "I have a treat for you."

"Rat tart, is it?" Old Cowley cried. "Ah don't like the stuff, d'ye ken?"

"I 'ave some lovely rat mousse here... with wiskey," the wolf continued.

"Keep the bloody mousse and leave the wiskey on the step," Old Cowley growled.

"You're not being very friendly, grandfather."

There was the sound of a bolt sliding free, and the door opened the tiniest bit. "Here, you're not Raymond. What d'you want?"

The wolf smiled his most wolfish smile. "Let me in. I want to eat you."

The door swung open.

Meanwhile, back at the hatrack, Raymond got dressed and picked up his basket (the wicker one). "See you around, handsome," he said to the sated hunter, and set on his way to Old Cowley's house.

When he finally reached the door, he knocked aggressively. "Come on, open up!" he yelled.

"Who's there?" the wolf called.

"It's me--Ray. I've got a bottle of something nice for you, Grandfa. Open up; I'm tired."

"Door's open, luv."

Raymond entered the little hovel to see his grandfather sitting behind the huge oaken desk that doubled as bed and board. (I suppose that technically it trebled (tripled?) but you'll just have to live with that.) "Grandfa, what long eyelashes, you've got!"

"The better to flirt with you, laddie," the wolf said coyly.

"What a lot of hair you've grown!" Raymond observed with some surprise.

"The better to grasp in the throes of passion, laddie."

"What cute knees you've got... 'ere! You're not my Grandfa, are you?"

"I mean, do I look like him?" Bodie demanded, rising from behind the desk (and I do mean rising) to confront Raymond. He threw off his Cowley disguise and faced Raymond in all his wolfish glory. "I'm going to eat you up, and you're going to love it," the wolf promised, advancing on the swooning lad. (Had to get that little bit of characterization in, didn't I?)

Raymond decided that there was no fate worse than death and fell back across the desk.

Some hours later, Murphy the hunter burst through the door and onto the entwined figures lying on the desk. "I heard your cries!" he cried, brandishing his weapon.

"What took you so long?" Ray asked. His wolf nuzzled his neck.

"Got lost, didn't I?" Murphy admitted. A hand unbuttoned his breeches surreptitiously. "Shall I kill him for you?" he asked, indicating the tame wolf.

"God no, he makes a lovely change from rats," Ray said. "But you can do something else for me," he said, smiling.

Still more hours later, as the three of them lay sprawled atop the desk, they heard the voice of Old Cowley. "Here, you lot, clear off of my desk!" He gave the trio a mighty shove and sent them sprawling "Bloody fairy tales!" Cowley shouted. "I'm getting sick of being the crusty old fairy godmother! This is your fault," he accused the three on the floor, who were scrambling for their clothes. "I can't get any work done, I never get any sleep! The bloody stories are piling up in the mail room, and Betty's been using the xerox machines to duplicate them for the whole staff! This is playing havoc with our budget, y'know, and I'm thinking of taking it out of your salaries!" He slouched down in his chair. "I was better off in MI6," he mused, hunting through the wicker basket for a joint of rat with cumberland sauce. "Next time I form an organization, I'm not telling the BBC."

"We'll just get back to work now, shall we sir?" Murphy asked, running his hand through his tousled brown hair.

"Get out, get out, afore I send you all to the Hebrides on a rubber raft!" They scrambled for the door. "Oh ... Bodie."

"Sir?" Bodie pleated his wolf-suit between nervous fingers.

"I'll see you later."

"Yessir." He disappeared after Murphy and Doyle.

Well, there had to be some fringe benefits to the job after all, Cowley decided.

-- THE END --