There was once a pretty shepherd who lived with his father in the middle of a big forest. He was a small and fancy and all the sheep loved him and gave him their wool with no need for shearing, they just unzipped it like a some sort of furry sweater and piled it outside him room.

The shepherd had something of the night to him, maybe because his ma had been a bit of a witch back in the days. He liked to dance in the forest at night muttering weird stuff (we're talking about the shepherd here, his mum had died of scurvy five years ago and gone to hell, she liked to dance in the forest too).

Once, a bit carried away by the strange words in his head he got lost and while trying to find his way back home he heard a strange noise closing in, some bizarre cacophony of grinding whistles and shrieking piercing tones, a bit like the sound of his dad bringing water out of the well with his rusty winch, only if the bucket coming from the darkness below had been full of nasty devils not dead japanese ghosts. Needless to say, the Shepherd was well excited by this happening and instead of running for his money he hid beneath a big stone and waited impatient. He saw a wolfy coming down the path, it walked on its hind legs pushing a big organ, and whenever its claws pounded the keyboard, sounds of happy death came from its metal pipes like lightning bolts made of barbed wire, zapping creatures of the night left and right, the wolfy stopped from time to time to pick up the tiny charred corpses and put them inside a big pouch hanging from its shoulder.

The wolfy had claws like interrogation signs and eyes like rotten toenails and fangs like a herd of waxing moons, everything in the wolfy was sharp and wiry and curved and scary, but the shepherd thought it was well cute. He decided to make friends with the wolfy and stepped from behind his cover, as he did so a rogue banshee sound from the organ started in his direction and he thought he was done for. But instead of burning him like a cinder, the evil ray stopped in front of him and grinned, waiting for something. He knew that if he didn't do as expected, he would burn and go to hell with his ma, which was good, so he let fear slid from his shoulders like a smothering wet shawl, and the song crawling up his throat burst out out like a geyser of iridiscent acid. His voice and the organ sound danced in the night sky and the wolfy's yellow eyes glittered approvingly. They became friends, started a band and terrorised the region, making the cow's milk sour and the god-fearing burguers shiver in their stuffy bedrooms for a hundred years thereafter.