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.”
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.’” be prepared hoodwinked song
In the shadow of the old wooden bridge that led into the heart of the forest, a wiry squirrel named Flick sat hunched over a stolen acorn cap. He wasn’t eating. He was listening. Vernon grinned, and it wasn’t a nice grin
“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. She delivers the grand prize entry to the judges every year
The chipmunks started humming a jaunty tune. Flick wrote: “Phase four? We’ve never reached Phase three in any plan ever.”