In my newfound tradition of also posting writings, I just wanted to post this project I did for a cartooning class three years ago before Hoodwinked 2 gets under way and steals my cred and ruins the story.

"You absolutely cannot ever, ever, ever make everyone happy. All I can do is tell the stories I need to tell and tell them with total conviction." --Brian Michael Bendis



The city. Once upon a time it was an okay place. The kind of burg where if Little Bo Peep lost her sheep, she’d know just where to find them. Nowadays, it’s hard to find even an apple that won’t put you into a coma. Not to say that I’m outta place here. I fit this slum like a florist in a puddle. Wait. That doesn’t make sense. Then again, I don’t get paid for my analogies. The name’s Wolfe. B.B. Wolfe. I’m a private eye. I used to have an eating problem—I had a rap sheet a yellow brick road long---pigs, grandmas, children, certain species of plankton—slap some guacamole on it and I’d eat the poor bastard. But that’s behind me now. Partly because of the current food recession due to jealous Queens poisoning nearly all the food, but I’m also a member of Overeaters’ Anonymous—seven months now of only curds and whey. Which reminds me. I should call my sponsor Juanilius. He owes me a banjo. Damn how I could go for a giraffe right now.

But my craving was interrupted by a rap-tap-tapping on my door, like a tommy-gun firing macaroni. Hey. I told you. Analogies aren’t my forte.

“Doorknob works,” I quipped through the glass. Hmm. That’s clever. I’ll run it by Juanilius later.

That’s when she ankled into my office. A tall drink of cocoa with a behind you wanted to eat lunch off of, and a chest that could rival the local dairy. The kind of sultry dame that could forge her foot into a glass slipper and if you called her on it, she’d crush your balls with the six-inch stiletto and then exercise the prenup and take one home with her to add to the collection, making you enjoy it all the while. She was followed by a puppy on a leash, a.k.a. her mark of a husband. Mmm. Puppy on a leash. That sounds good. Aww crap. Focus. Focus!

Her name was Vikki Zen. Her husband’s name…I don’t recall. He’s a woodsman, but I only know that because he hit me with an axe once. In my hungry days. He didn’t remember me, and I think that’s best.

It seemed Ms. Zen’s stepchildren—a runt named Hansel and a scamp called Gretel—were missing, presumably ran away. Although the weak-sister-of-a-puppy-dog-woodsman seemed distraught, even malnourished, Ms. Zen didn’t look at much of a loss for her vanished kinder. In fact, considering her dolled-up hair, oyster fruit necklace, and shapely glad rags, she didn’t seem at a loss for much at all. The bim was buncoing this family with the Chinese squeeze, and considering that the kids disappeared around the time the food recession began, my canine senses howled that I was heading into soylent trouble. Mmm. Soylent trouble. I could sure dammit! No. Be strong, be strong.

The kids were last seen going into The Woods, which is a dangerous place for kids to venture. The Woods is the roughest nightclub this side of your steering wheel. Inside the clip joint, I put the screws on the usual suspects. No bites. Humpty Dumpty apparently had a great fall. He led a hard-boiled life and now a death to match. The Magic Mirror is currently giving someone seven years bad luck. And Snow White, well let’s just say someone put her golden heart to sleep. This was no coincidence. I had to be getting close to the little ragamuffins. Oooh. A raga muffin sounds delicious right about—No! Okay, good thoughts in, bad thoughts out, I’m a kitten, you’re a kitten….

Needless to say, I was a tad concerned that I was tripping for biscuits. I planted myself by the captain’s court, tipping back the hops to calm my dancing paw, when it caught my eye. A bread crumb. And behind it, another one. And behind that, another one. And behind that, another one. And behind that, another one. And behind that, another one. And behind that, another one. And behind that, another one. Oh sorry. Let’s just call it a lead.

The crumbs stopped at The Gingerbread Projects, low-level housing made of candy and broken dreams. And the area was recently broken by riots from the food recession leaving many a poor sap homeless on top of starving. Only one building seemed to remain entirely intact. Did the rioters spare this candy cottage or just know better than to mess with its hinky peppermint architecture? I was gonna crab this one out.

I rap-a-tap-tapped on the front door. An eye cover slid open and a girl’s voiced screeched, “Password?”

“Rumpelstiltskin.”

“Nice try—NARC!” and the cover slid curtly shut.

I’d show her. I’m not one to wear iron. But when you have the lungs I do, obstacles sort of blow outta your path. I huffed and puffed that door ‘til it fell like a straw shanty. I went inside and instantly knew I was in trouble, trouble spelled with a capital “OH GAWD I’VE BEEN SHOT IN THE FACE!.” Yeah. That kinda trouble. This was the hide-out of The Little Red Riding Hoods, a gang of little girls in red-hooded jumpers who ruff up people for their picanic baskets. It’s not like I was wearing rival colors or carrying a picanic basket for that matter, but the girls didn’t appreciate me letting myself in. I was behind the eight-ball, and they flew off the track, dry-gulching me with The Broderick.

I threw a Joe, and when I came to, my head was pounding like a pickle in a doorknob factory. Mmm. Pickle. I looked up to find a crazy tomater standing over me with a red-jumpered Gretel. And if her bulge wasn’t enough of a Chinese angle, behind them, lay little Hansel caged like a mockingbird.

I wasn’t unpeached for long—the crazy tomater had a mouth like a Presbyterian at a sonar convention. She was the witch Bruja Hoodooni, ultra-feminist cannibal and lovechild of Willy Wonka and Courtney Love. Driven insane from toxic spell inhalation, she spear-headed a radical faction of the Red Riding Hoods luring girls into her gang with the enchanted candy from her house. The gang believed that in this current grocery recession, picanic baskets weren’t comparable to eating men. Bruja had gotten to Gretel and they were plumping Hansel up with Crisco and zucchini which actually sounds pretty darn delicious when you think about it. But I wasn’t there to think. In fact, in Bruja’s mind, I was there to be the second course. Of course, I couldn’t let that happen. Not only do wooden kimonos not go with my tie, but no one eats before I do.

The Wiccan chippy sicced her hoods on me. Literally. The roundheels closed in on me, my heart pounded, my head throbbed, but wait. My stomach growled. That’s when my salvation hit me like periwinkle off a lemur’s ass. I could fight my one weakness, or finally employ it once again to buck the Dutch.

I won’t lie to you. Those little girls were delicious. I may have even felt remorse if Bruja hadn’t abruptly tried to skewer me with a Harlem sunset. (Bruja draws candy cane swords from her hair.) But I was already a head of her. (B.B. draws head of Rapunzel and uses it as nunchuks.) Rapunzel let down her hair, and I let Bruja fall into the oven. Darn! If only I brought a doggy bag.

With the witch blipped off, her hold over Gretel was broken. I made Gretel apologize for making her brother obese and trying to eat him. It just seemed like the right thing to do. I took the peewees home making their woodsman pop as pleased as illegal floss. Oh, and Vikki apparently took it on the heel and toe and left them. Oh, and Hansel stopped being fat. Oh, and I got a new hat. Oh yeah, and the food recession ended, why not. Yeah. That’s the crop. I’m gonna go get something to eat. I’m sorry if that sounded anticlimactic.