In the middle of the heart of the depths of the Mousy Mountains lived the Werewolf. It was big and terrible. Its eyes spat fire and it had a saw-toothed tongue. It had long white fangs, and every night at six o'clock, it let out a roar that shook the whole of the Mousy Mountains. "Mommy, that's the Werewolf again," the children would say, and then the villagers would close and bolt the shutters and doors. Everyone was so scared they hid in their beds under the blankets, and then the Werewolf came to the village. It thundered down the mountain, howling and snorting all the way, and stormed through the village streets. It pounded on the shutters and doors with its ghastly paws - it was terrifying. And by the time it finally went away again, it had eaten up at least ten goats and dozens of rabbits. But what could they do about it? Nobody knew and everyone was scared and miserable.
But then one night, the big bad Werewolf gobbled up the town clerk's great-grandmother, every last scrap of her, and that was really going too far! Enough was enough.