But for now, under the bridge, the gang sang their song, off-key but full of hope. And Flick, the squirrel who kept the records, wrote one final note:
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. be prepared hoodwinked song
“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. But for now, under the bridge, the gang
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.’” Tired of being the fall guy
The raccoons started clapping. The weasel sniffled with pride. Even the chipmunks stopped giggling and started chanting, “Be pre-pared! Be pre-pared!”
The chipmunks started humming a jaunty tune. Flick wrote: “Phase four? We’ve never reached Phase three in any plan ever.”