Once upon a time and in a very politically correct land, there lived three vertically challenged wolves. Lucius, their father, had become romantically involved with a man called Peter. This was a big event in the country. It had never happened before and the whole world was agog at this same gender, cross species union. To celebrate this, the famous Sergei Prokofiev had composed a new piece of music - called, strangely enough, Peter and the Wolf. This caught the attention of the world's press.
Lucius' three vertically challenged offspring felt claustrophobic and embarrassed by the media scrum surrounding their father's happy circumstances. As an unfortunate consequence, they found themselves in a relocation situation. The three hairy siblings, (although still being valued members of society, with their status and integrity guaranteed etc, etc), were however, still in need of shelter.
The first one held strong socialist views, which led him to demonstrate his solidarity with the poor people of the world. He built his house of straw.
The second, had an issue with labour of any kind, so opted for sticks as his building material in order to conserve energy.
The third, being the most skill/asset loaded of the siblings, in architecture and construction terms, built his house of bricks.
Meanwhile, trouble was brewing in the volumetrically enhanced shape of Phil the Pig. Phil was less than chuffed that his ex partner Lucius, had altered the relationship dynamic between them by getting off with Peter. Phil couldn't get to Lucius to avenge his broken heart, what with his minders and all now he was a celebrity, so he decided to go for the easy option - the three vertically challenged wolves.
Inside the straw house the first vertically challenged wolf was enjoying a bowl of gruel in solidarity with the proletariat. He spilt his gruel and swore in fright as the door almost came off its hinges. The sight that greeted him upon peering through the window made his whiskers tremble. He covered his ears as Phil the pig began his rhyme. This wasn't because it was frightening, but because it was so poorly composed; without even a decent rhyming couplet to mention.
"Oh, vertically challenged wolf. Oh, vertically challenged wolf. Let me in. Let me in."
Phil the pig's ears twitched as he heard a tremulous voice replying to his sinister rhyme. "Not by the hair on my chinny, chin, chin."
He wished he could think up quick responses like that. He thought about it and adjusted his Laura Ashley brand leather cap over his mean eyes before trying a different tack. "I've got some sherbert lemons."
"On a diet, mate." Responded the wolf.
Silence met this as Phil's small brain adjusted to this new development. After a while he gave up and decided shouting threats would work better than all this psychology nonsense. He drew himself up to his full height took in a deep breath and roared. "I'll huff and I'll puff and I'll blow your house down."
From inside the straw house, the first wolf demonstrated his aversion to conflict by squealing in an extremely non-masculine way. His bottle went before the first breath and he legged it to his brother's, sharpish.
Next, Phil attempted to negotiate entry at the stick house by huffing and puffing some more. His tattoos (one saying "Mum" and the other saying "I love Lucius"), rippled as he flexed his arm. Inside the house, cries of "be careful" and "you'll 'ave my eye out" did nothing to avert him in his pursuit of vengeance. Finally, the stick house gave way and the two courage-denuded inhabitants ran off to the third brother's house, where he reluctantly let them in after warning them to wipe their feet as he had a new carpet.
Before long, Phil arrived in a great lather. His Rocha John Rocha chaps were now skewed to one side with the effort of blowing hard and running after the wolves. He was very humorous-deficient now and raged around outside the sturdy brick walls, while the three vertically challenged wolves gestured through the windows in a non-inclusive manner.
This had the effect on Phil, of raising his blood pressure to dangerous levels.
No matter how hard he huffed and puffed, nothing moved. Apart, that is, from the little clot in his bloodstream that had been there since he'd had his last fag.
The final straw came when, outraged at the wolves' use of politically incorrect language, Phil screamed "I am not porky pig, the fattest, piggiest pig in all of pigland. My name is Phil and I am a …….." his heart stopped dead.
The wolves laughed unpleasantly and one of them said. "What a stroke of luck!"

By William
Wills