Miss. Illinois walked onstage with a quiet purpose. Staring intently above the spotlights, she began,
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Hey, cutie pie with the big doe eyes and lamb-soft hair. I've heard the stories they tell about you -- that you're soft, tame, docile. Maybe they're right. But a little birdie tells me that you might be about to prove them wrong.
Because that attic apartment off some no-name sidestreet is getting lonesome, and you're getting tired of eating meals at a table with only one chair. Maybe it's time to get a pet.
A corgi who will shake her stubby tail so hard her entire body shakes when she sees you? Maybe.
A goldendoodle who will nap at your feet every night? Perhaps.
But today, when you take your daily walk in the woods to unwind, maybe you'll hear a howl.
Maybe other people would go running.
Maybe you're different.
Maybe you'll hear a note of something...human...in the howl. You'll go off the beaten path, into the darkness of the woods. Maybe it isn't so dark once your eyes adjust.
If you follow the sound of his lonesome cries, you'll find his cavern. It will be grander, more spacious, warmer, than any doghouse. The pile of sun-bleached bones at the opening, all distinctly human, will set you trembling. Maybe they'd send a weaker person running. Maybe you're strong.
Step into the cavern. Feel the heavy air buffeting your face, urging you backeards. You'll be able to hear the wolf's growling. Don't give up. Soften your eyes. Kneel. Hold out your hand.
Don't flinch when he sniffs your fingers, backs up and growls again. Whisper your truth in a soothing voice. Maybe he'll catch a note of your soul. Maybe he'll like what he hears.
When he slowly pads closer, pet his head. He'll be surprised. He'll back up and beat his tail against the stone, agitated. Maybe he's upset by how much he liked it. He'll eventually come back. You'll pet him again. He'll tolerate it. He'll like it. He'll love it. He'll tell you no one has ever pet him before.
Stroke his matted fur until he lays his head on your lap and closes his eyes. There will be beads of other people's blood on his muzzle and paws. Gently pluck them out for him.
When he awakens, he'll lead you out into the depths of the forest, trotting sure-footed into darkness you could never break through on your own. He'll bring you to prettier moonlit glens and more peaceful burbling springs than you knew existed. There, he'll bare his soul for you and reveal his deep hatred for humans, our sadism and inhumanity that has kept him in the shadows and away from his birthright as king of the food chain. Maybe you'll agree with his every word. Maybe you'll cry, for being part of such a wretched species. Do so, and he'll brush your tears away with his flea-bitten tail and lead you back to his cavern to gather his meager possessions before moving into your apartment, his chosen human.
And there, he'll rip you to shreds and dump your meat-stripped bones among the rest.
Because a wolf is a fucking wolf, and you're not special.
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The room seemed to pause. Miss. Illinois stood illuminated in her glaring white spotlight, the inner corners of her eyes glistening and her hands tight on her microphone. The judges sat frozen with pens in hand, and the oldest and middle provider looked at each other, bewildered, while the youngest stared up at Miss. Illinois with the same tears in her eyes.
Finally, Miss. Hawaii padded onstage, wrapped her arm around Miss. Illinois, and led her off-stage. The last thing the producers saw was Miss. Wisconsin enveloping her in a hug.
Miss. Illinois was disqualified for profanity, and the contest continued.
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