My entry for the April/May story contest (the way I intended to present it before all the computer trouble I experienced when posting originally).
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Once upon a time, and all that bollocks, there were three little twats: Porky, Dorky and Slim. Of course, those weren't their real names. I chose those monikers myself after they stitched me up and left me to rot in this maximum security dump these past twenty years.
I'm Wilf by the way; 'Big Bad Wilf' as I was once known in the criminal underworld - It's a play on words in reference to a terrifying, monthly affliction I've suffered since my mid twenties. Though I have to say; the suffering and afflicted parts have never bothered yours truly (far from it) and it's everyone else who's terrified, not me.
Before my incarceration, I even welcomed my four-weekly metamorphosis; and why not? Over the years it had elevated my social and fiscal worth to the point where I was pretty much untouchable, king of the hill, the daddy. A biological windfall if ever there was one.
Which begs the question: how did those three, defenceless little pigs ever get the best of me?
Well, allow me to enlighten you.