Little Noir Riding Hood

Forest, dark. The sorry side of midnight.

And there she was, all alone, walking straight down the middle of the forest. Taking advantage of that trail those WPA dudes laid down almost a century ago. Like that kid in the old stories, you know? But not exactly.

Her hoodie wasn’t red. She didn’t skip either. Calling attention to yourself when you’re all alone in a dark forest wasn’t a bright idea. And she was a bright kid. Everyone said so, but she didn’t need to hear it. She knew it already.

Big old redwoods towering over her head. Full moon shining down. Must be a pretty sight. But she did not look up.

Wolfie would make his appearance soon. She knew that too. Fuck him. 

She had a job to do. Daddy was useless, on account of his legs. But Grandma's last call sounded kind of desperate. Calling the cops, public services, good samaritan types? Uh-uh. Not an option, for reasons she need not spell out. The job was hers and nobody else's.

Simple job. Grandma needed food. She also needed that Walther PPK tucked away beneath the sandwiches. Old as she was, Grandma still had enemies.

Far as she knew, Wolfie wasn't one of them. Grandma wasn't his type. She was. Liked 'em young, or so the rumor had it. Second-hand information. Because none of the girls Wolfie liked were available to answer questions.

Took another few steps. Kicked a stone.

Wolfie appeared out of nowhere, just like she thought he would. Not that big. Rumored to be bad. But that remained to be seen.

"Hey, good looking. What you got cooking?"

She didn't jump. She said nothing. Just kept walking like it ain't no thing. Eyes front. But her peripheral vision told the story.

Wolfie smiled, showing teeth. As friendly as a bag of broken glass.

"So ... cute little girl like you. Watchew doing here all by your lonesome in the middle of these deep dark woods?"

"Minding my own business."

"Minding your own business. Yeah, that’s good."

A few steps in silence. She kept an even pace.

"So ... Where you headed?"

"My destination."

"Uh-huh. Where’s that?"

"It’s where I'm going."

"Uh-huh, yeah. By definition yes it is." Wolfie giggled. "The very definition of a destination! Tautologically speaking." 

Another giggle.

Yeah, this Wolfie's got a sense of humor. Clever motherfucker. Thinks he's getting her off guard. Thinks wrong. If ...

"Check you later."

Wolfie ran off like a pervert track star into the deep dark woods he’d previously mentioned. Grandma’s cottage was about a half-mile ahead. This lanky-ass motherfucker aimed his ass towards the opposite point on the compass. But he could easily circle back and get there first. Where else would he go? More to the point, where else would she go?

Hope for the best, plan for the worst.

She maintained an even pace, didn’t walk any faster, any slower. (The very definition of "even pace, tautologically speaking.) Not worried at all.

She arrived at Grandma's cottage about ten minutes later. Log cabin deal, more of that WPA shit.

Knocked. Got nothing. Then rang the bell.

Grandma fucking hates that bell.

"Come in."

Falsetto voice. Like Grandma sucking helium. Please.

She came in. Looked. Without looking like she was looking.

Signs of a struggle. Nothing obvious. Like a struggle cleaned up. Grandma’s favorite rocking chair covered up with a quilt. She never did that.

And there he was. 

Pervert sitting up in the bed. Wolfie being the pervert in question. All dressed up in Grandma's nighty. Nothing perverted about that. (Hell, whatever turns you on. Dress up in sheep's clothing, fine by her.) His taste for young flesh o the other hand ...

Wolfie started using that high-pitched voice again.

"Come closer."

Seriously?

Motherfucker wants to play that game? Fine by her.

She came closer.

"My what big ears you have," she said.

"The better to hear you with." 

"My what big eyes you have."

Big bloodshot eyes

"The better to see you with"

"My what big teeth you have."

"The better to eat you with."

She snorted.

"Doesn’t anybody just fuck anymore?"

Old joke, but it threw off Wolfie's timing. Fuck? Oh, she means like the opposite. Fraction of a second lag, but enough. 

Wolfie threw off the covers and leapt up.

Fast, not fast enough.

She whipped out an Uzi and cut him in half.

In case you were wondering, she was left-handed. Had that picnic backet hanging from her right shoulder, see, right arm draped over the top with girlish grace. Most literal-minded motherfuckers tend to focus on that right hand, forget about the left. The one holding the Uzi, dig. Aside from just looking fucking cool, the hood covered a multitude of sins. As to how she got her hands on that Uzi ...

Not a gunstore purchase. Convenient piece of ordnance she'd printed up in the basement. (The 3D printer being Daddy's last purchase before they caught up with him.) Untraceable. "Ghost gun," they called it. 

You believe in ghost stories, Wolfie was floating around like Casper now. Grandma's ghost was doubtlessly kicking his sorry ectoplasmic ass.

In the material realm, Wolfie now resembled an explosion in a pizza factory. What remained of Grandma was probably in the closet. Or Wolfie's digestive tract.

That quilt would come in handy for covering the bloody mess. Cleaning it up was a job for later. Her job, once again.

Ain't like that Tarantino movie where you call the dude in the tuxedo to clean it up. The Harvey Keitel character ... Mr. Wolf. Funny coincidence, huh?

Yeah. Ha-ha.

She'd think about it later. Do the job later.

Right now, she was hungry.

She sat down indian style on the floor, opened up the picnic basket and took out the two sandwiches.

A girl had to eat.

She ate.

And kept her left hand on the Uzi. And clocked the door.

Just in case some woodsman with an axe showed up.