Here is the story of the 3 Little Pigs...
In the style of Cormac McCarthy-
Three pigs left their mother’s house. The land was open and the road unmarked. They built. One of straw. One of sticks. One of brick. The sky hung low and the wind moved across the fields in a slow and patient way.
The wolf came. He was lean and gray and the hunger was on him like a sickness. He spoke no kindness. He brought down the straw house with his breath and he ate the pig. He brought down the stick house and he ate again. The last pig watched from the brick house. The wolf came against it and his breath was spent and the walls held. He circled. The sun sank.
The wolf climbed to the roof and sought the chimney. The fire was set and waiting. He fell into it. His body was broken open by the flame and the smoke carried him out into the dark. The last pig sat alone in his house of brick. The night pressed in and the world was very quiet.
In the style of Ernest Hemingway-
Three pigs left their home. They wanted houses of their own. One made his from straw. It was quick. One made his from sticks. It was stronger but not much. One made his from brick. It took time. It was good work.
A wolf came down the road. He was hungry. He blew down the straw house and ate the pig. He blew down the stick house and ate the pig. He went to the brick house and blew but it did not fall. He blew again. It still stood.
The wolf tried to come in through the chimney. The pig made a fire. The wolf fell into it. That was the end of the wolf. The pig sat in his house. It was strong. He was safe. He thought of his brothers.
In the style of Edgar Rice Burroughs-
In a primeval land where survival hung upon sinew and cunning, there dwelt three young swine, cast forth from their mother’s humble den to seek their fortunes. Each, strong of limb yet differing in mind, sought to fashion for himself a stronghold against the lurking perils of the wild.
The first, impatient and trusting in ease, bound together a rude shelter of straw, flimsy as the grasses of the field. The second, more cautious but still untested in the hardships of the world, raised a hut of sticks, frail against the might of fang and claw. Yet the third, deliberate and resolute, hewed his fortress from stone and brick, a redoubt worthy of a warrior-chief.
From the shadowed forest came their nemesis—the great gray wolf, predator of cunning and relentless hunger. He fell upon the first swine’s hut, and with the breath of his savage lungs he shattered the straw dwelling and sent the hapless swine fleeing. Again he came upon the house of sticks, and again his breath smote it as the hurricane smites the jungle boughs.
At last the wolf assailed the fortress of brick, but here his fury was met by walls that would not yield. He hurled himself against them, he strove with fire and smoke, but the steadfast swine stood firm within his castle. At length the wolf, vanquished by the strength of stone and the will of his prey, perished in his own cunning.
Thus was it shown that in the eternal contest of beast and man—or beast and swine—it is not haste nor half-measures that prevail, but the enduring labor of those who build with vision and with might.
In the style of Chaucer-
Whilom, as olde folke doon us telle, ther weren three litel swyn that from hir dame they wente, ech desyring to wonye in an hous of his owene makyng. The firste, ful light of herte and soone apayd, yaf hym to reed straw, and with swyft handes set up a cote ful feble. The seconde, somdeel moore war, yet nat ful wys, gadered stikkes and tymber smale, and therwith reysed a lodge of litel myght. But the thridde, a sooth sadde swyn, slow and sobre, laboréd longe with bricke and morter, and made an hous strong and sure.
Lo, cam a wulf, gaunt with hunger and malyce, and to the firste hous he blew so myghtily that down it fil, and the pore swyn was devoured. To the seconde hous he yede and blewe with breeth unkynde; that hous of stikkes fil also, and the wulf made his fest. But whan he cam to the thridde hous, ful stout and stedfast stood it ayen his blast. He huffed and he puffed til his throte was sore, yet the walles ne bowed ne brake.
At the laste, the wulf, ful of gyle, clomb up to the roof and soughte the chymeneye. But the swyn, wys and ware, hadde set a fyr greet and hoot in the herth. Down cam the wulf into the fyr, and brent he was al to coles. Thus the thridde swyn lyved in pees al his dayes, in bricke hous strong, and lerned that pacience and travaille maken siker rest.
In the style of L. Sprague De Camp-
Three young pigs, having come of age and finding the maternal sty a bit cramped, resolved to set up on their own. Now, being of diverse temperaments, each chose a different method of house construction. The first, a light-minded fellow with more enthusiasm than foresight, cobbled together a hut of straw. The second, a middling sort of chap, elected to use sticks—less fragile than straw, to be sure, but hardly impervious to pressure. The third, more deliberate and possessing a healthy respect for the harsher realities of the world, undertook the laborious business of erecting a dwelling of brick.
Enter, stage left, a wolf. This wolf was not merely hungry but positively inspired by his appetite, and with lungs of remarkable capacity. At the straw house he huffed, puffed, and blew it to fragments, consuming its unfortunate tenant. At the stick house he repeated the procedure with equal success and equal gluttony. Then he advanced upon the brick house. Here his pulmonary exercises met with no success whatsoever. The structure stood, solid and unyielding, while the wolf grew increasingly hoarse.
Driven by a combination of determination and poor judgment, the wolf attempted a flanking maneuver via the chimney. The pig, however, had anticipated such a contingency and maintained a fire blazing in the hearth. Down went the wolf, with results that need not be dwelt upon in detail, save to note that they were terminal. The last pig, secure within his brick-walled bastion, survived to enjoy the fruits of prudence, foresight, and masonry—an object lesson to rash and improvident swine everywhere.
In the style of Edgar Alan Poe-
Once, in a land of shadowed fields and waning light, there dwelt three small swine, who, forsaking the care of their dam, sought refuge in dwellings of their own contrivance. The first, in a fever of haste and gaiety, wove about himself a frail habitation of straw. The second, with some small care yet little wisdom, framed a hut of brittle sticks. The third, with solemn countenance and patient toil, raised high the red and ponderous bricks, each laid as though upon a sepulcher.
Yet soon there came a presence—gaunt, ravenous, malign. A wolf, with eyes like coals sunk in cavernous sockets, and breath that came forth in dreadful gusts, as though exhaled from the very pit. He did breathe upon the house of straw, and with a howl the frail walls fell into ruin; the pig within was swallowed by the beast. Then to the house of sticks he went, and again the demon-wind poured forth from his maw; the timbers clattered down, and the second swine was lost to the maw of that abomination.
At last he came unto the house of brick. Here he raged, and the night trembled with his exertions, yet the walls stood immutable. The wolf’s fury grew into madness; he clambered to the roof, and with baleful purpose descended the chimney. But the third swine, grim and foreknowing, had kindled a fire most fervent, and into that pit the wolf plunged. From the hearth arose a shriek most terrible—such a sound as might haunt the dreams of men until the grave.
And then there was silence, save for the crackling of flame and the solemn beating of the swine’s heart, alone within his fortress of stone, pondering the ghastly fate of his brethren, and the dreadful hunger that stalks all living things.
In the style of Arthur Conan Doyle-
It was in the pleasant countryside, some miles beyond the bustle of the city, that I first heard the curious case of the Three Little Pigs. The matter, though seemingly whimsical, bore all the hallmarks of a contest between wit and brute force, and I should be remiss not to set it down.
Three porcine brothers, having quitted the care of their mother, resolved to establish dwellings of their own. The eldest, possessed of a singular impatience, fashioned his abode from straw, believing speed a worthy substitute for strength. The second, with somewhat greater industry, employed sticks in the construction of his house. But it was the youngest, a creature of deliberate mind and steady temperament, who elected to build with brick, a material most sensible for defense against the elements—or, as the event proved, against more sinister adversaries.
For soon there appeared upon the scene a wolf of voracious appetite and formidable lung power. He approached the straw house first. With one prodigious effort of breath, he reduced it to tatters, and the hapless pig was devoured. At the stick house he performed much the same, his great exhalations sending splinters flying, and the second pig met his end in similar fashion.
The third encounter proved of quite another order. The wolf blew with all his might, yet the bricks held fast. He raged and circled, but the house stood firm against his assaults. In desperation, he conceived the stratagem of descending the chimney. Yet the youngest pig, who was both shrewd and vigilant, had anticipated this maneuver. A cauldron of boiling water had been set upon the fire. Into this the wolf fell headlong, and his menace was ended forthwith.
Thus it was that prudence and foresight triumphed over folly and rashness, a conclusion most satisfactory, and one that might be commended to readers of every station in life.
In the style of Mickey Spillane-
Three pigs. Brothers. They wanted their own places, so they split. One was lazy—built his shack outta straw. Said it was quick, easy. Yeah, it was quick, all right. Quick to fall. The second wasn’t much better. Sticks. A little tougher, but still a pushover. The third one, he was different. He laid down brick on brick, sweat in his eyes, back breaking, but he made a fortress.
Then the wolf showed. A real mug. Big lungs, bad attitude, and a hunger that didn’t quit. He hit the straw house first—blew it down like it was paper. The pig never had a chance. Next stop, sticks. Same routine, same ending. Two pigs gone.
Now it was the brick house. The wolf huffed, puffed, worked his lungs like a bellows, but the place didn’t budge. He got mad. Mad enough to try a sneak job down the chimney. But the third pig was no sap—he had a pot of water boiling on the fire. Wolf dropped in, and that was curtains.
The last pig lit himself a cigarette, sat back in his solid house, and didn’t say a word. He didn’t need to. He’d played it smart, and in this world, smart is the only thing that keeps you breathing.
In the style of R. J. Yeatman and W. C. Sellar-
The Story of the Three Little Pigs (A Correct but Unnecessary Version)
There were once Three Little Pigs, who, being Very Little, were also Very Silly. It was therefore decided that they should be allowed to build houses, as this would at least keep them out of mischief, if not out of danger.
The First Little Pig built his house of Straw. This was considered a Good Idea because it was Very Easy and he was Very Tired. The Second Little Pig, wishing to be Different, built his house of Sticks. This was a Slightly Better Idea but still Wrong. The Third Little Pig, however, built his house of Bricks, which was both a Good Idea and the Right Answer.
At this point a Wolf appeared. Wolves, in those days, were always appearing in order to eat people up, which was their Only Occupation. The Wolf blew down the First Pig’s house (Wrong) and ate the Pig (Also Wrong). He then blew down the Second Pig’s house (Wrong Again) and ate the Pig (Still Wrong). He then attempted the Third Pig’s house, but found it made of Bricks (Right). As everyone knows, Bricks are Utterly Wolf-Proof, and the Wolf, having failed to blow it down, attempted to enter via the chimney.
Unfortunately for him, the Third Pig had prepared a Boiling Pot (Correct), and the Wolf fell in and was immediately Cooked (Inevitable). Thus the Moral is that Bricks are Always Right, Wolves are Always Wrong, and the Third Little Pig was the Cleverest Boy in the Form.
Result:
In the style of Alfred Hitchcock-
