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Little Roger Riding Hood	By : signorinaravelli Category: Singers/Bands/Musicians > Pink Floyd Views: 750 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. I do not know the members of Pink Floyd. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
- 1-Little Roger Riding Hood
- 1
Once upon a time, there was a little "girl" called Little Roger Riding Hood, who was very pretty and did not at all resemble a horse. He lived in the little village of Floyd…ing…ton with his mummy, who we’ll call Rick. Disregarding the incestuous and terribly interesting undertones of Mummy Rick and Little Roger Riding Hood’s relationship, they both loved each other very much. Someone else they loved very much was Granny Gilmour, who lived just through the forest. Granny Gilmour, it must be noted, did not resemble a Granny. In fact, he resembled a strapping lad of twenty-five, shirtless, with not-at-all greasy hair. Oh yeah, he had a really nice ass too. You know, rap video quality.

Little Roger Riding Hood visited his Granny all the time and perhaps more than was healthy. But that was okay because they always had a splendid time together. One day, Granny Gilmour was so appreciative of Roger’s certain, unique skills in…needlepoint, that he sewed him a cloak of red wool. Roger immediately loved it!

“You stupid bastard, it’s the middle of summer; do you want me to die of fucking heat stroke?!”

“Y…no.”

And from that day on, Roger wore it always. Then one morning, Mummy Rick awoke him bright and early with a task.

“Roger, there’s something terribly important that you must do for me.”

“If this is about meeting your connection again-”

“Oh, no, nothing like that! That’s all behind me now…” He discreetly turned away to snort something very mysterious. Fairy dust, the author supposes. “No. Granny Gilmour is very ill.”

“HA!”

“This is no laughing matter, Rog!”

“Yes, it is. I mean, no more hate-sex but hey, I’ve still got you to take my anger out on! You’re great for that sort of thing, Rick! There’s nothing I like better than crushing your fragile spirit.”

Mummy Rick looked characteristically frightened.

“Roger, you must do as I ask or…or…”

“You’ll what?”

“I’ll restrict you from writing songs about your father’s death and its tremendous impact on you!”

Roger was up and out of bed, ready for his task! Mummy Rick gave him a basket of goodies; cakes, wine, and some Acapulco Gold for good measure. He instructed him to take this to his ailing Granny.

“Now Roger, when you’re walking through the forest by yourself, you must be very careful not to stray from the path. You never know what sorts of things you’ll meet.”

“Fuck off, Wright.”

So he was off. At this point it would be good to mention that no one in the little village of Floydington questioned Roger’s odd relationship with his family. Nor the fifty foot wall of polystyrene blocks around the cottage. And least of all why it was that he went about the village in a red cloak and a mini-dress. It was probably best not to think about it.

Anyway, Roger was soon on his merry way through the woods. It was a beautiful day: the birds were singing, the scent of honeysuckle was strong in the air. But alas, things are never quite as innocent as they appear. For that day, there was a wolf lurking about, just waiting for unsuspecting little girls to pass by so he could eat them up! The wolf spotted Little Roger Riding Hood, that mere slip of a girl, and was unbelieving of his luck. When it crept out from the brambles, Roger stopped in his tracks. It was a very peculiar-looking creature, this wolf, with its paisley shirt, blue velvet trousers, and obligatory Hendrix perm. Actually, it didn’t look terribly like a wolf. But let’s preserve the illusion and say that he was simply in disguise…

“Hello, little girl.” Said Syd Wolf sweetly. “Well, em, not little really, are you? I mean, I’ve seen some pretty tall birds but you’re in a class all your own, darling.”

“You’re a wolf, aren’t you?” Roger eyed him suspiciously. “Well, I’ve heard all about your kind and I know that you lot are only after one thing: Eating helpless children like me.” He looked Syd Wolf up and down admiringly. This certainly didn’t make interspecies relations seem at all that bad. “Pity, that.”

“Oh, but wolves aren’t all like that…tell you what, why don’t you come with me and I’ll prove it to you? I’ve got…pork chops.”

“I don’t want any of your chops!”

“How about my coleslaw? Surely you like coleslaw?”

“For fuck’s sake, I don’t want your chops or your coleslaw! And in any case, I’m sure they’re going off.”

“Well, yes, you’re right about that…”

“Anyway, get out of my way. I’ve got to take this basket of goodies to my sick Granny.”

“Your Granny, eh? She wouldn’t happen to be…robust, would she?”

“Well, ‘she’s’ certainly getting there. In the ass department anyway.”

Syd Wolf had an idea. Why settle for just Skinny-But-Rather-Tasty-Looking Little Roger Riding Hood when he could have the Nearly-Robust Granny Gilmour as well? Oh, treacherous and slightly high beast!

“And where might your Granny live?” Asked Syd Wolf slyly.

“About half a mile away in a little cottage.” Roger answered foolishly. Syd Wolf suddenly laughed very maniacally, which was a bit disconcerting. “Uh, yeah…I hope you’re not planning on breaking into my Granny’s house and killing him. Because you know, that would just be awful…”

“It certainly would be.” Agreed Syd Wolf, smiling hugely. “It would also be awful if I were planning on violating him, which, judging my expression of maniacal lechery, I’m clearly not. And obviously I wouldn’t be doing that to you either, my fine, slightly sluttish fellow.”

“Goddammit - I mean, that’s reassuring. Oops!” Little Roger Riding Hood had clumsily dropped his basket of goodies. “Silly me! I guess I’ll have to…bend over and pick my things up.”

Just then a motor revved in the distance and Syd Wolf was forced to retreat, so as not to be discovered. Roger was cursing his rotten luck when a Ferrari 250 GTO came crashing through the bushes, crushing all life in its path. It stopped and out climbed the resident huntsman, Nick, who was busy plying his trade that day. Huntsman Nick was a jolly, mustachioed fellow and everyone in the village knew and loved him. It was unknown to them why he insisted on driving his Ferraris through the forest, commissioning crustless pies from the local baker, and buying out the stock of butterfly t-shirts from the tailor, but to each their own, they supposed.

“Hello, little girl…boy…whatever,” called Huntsman Nick. “What are you doing out here in the forest by yourself?”

“I am a grown man!”

“Yes, I can see that.” He leaned over sideways. “I can see a lot actually…”

“Are you going to leave me alone so I can get on with my trip?”

“Perhaps I can sell you the fiftieth edition of my book ‘Outside In’. It’s about my experiences with Flink Poyd. Great for your coffee table at home, lots of pretty pictures and amusing anecdotes. It retails for the incredibly reasonable price of twenty pounds but since I just received that crotch-shot from you, I’m willing to let you have it for a mere forty.” He reached in his car and revved the engine for effect. “At these prices, these books are going fast! VROOM!”

“I was under the impression that you were a huntsman…”

“Only in my spare time. Speaking of which, you haven’t seen a wolf around here, have you? I’m…’hunting’ him.” He fingered his mustache fiendishly. “He’s quite elusive, you know.”

“If you mean that sexy madcap with the paisley shirt, blue velvet trousers, and the obligatory Hendrix perm, then yes, I have.”

“Well? Where is he?!” Huntsman Nick eagerly began to unbutton his trousers and by that I mean that he reached for his shotgun. Which doesn’t sound very dirty either. “Point the way, little girl!”

Roger, so disturbed by this display, ran away much to Huntsman Nick’s discontent. Good fortune smiled on our heroine, however, because Granny Gilmour’s cottage soon came into view. It was always a pretty sight with its hazel bushes, quaint little cobblestone path strewn with empty cans of Guinness beer, and “I hate Roger Waters, that stupid cunt” banner hanging over the door. Presently Roger had run up to the door and demurely knocked.

“LET ME THE FUCK IN, DAVID!”

“It’s open!” A familiar voice called from within. Surprised, Roger pushed open the door and gasped at what he found. Syd Wolf, Granny Gilmour (who had just recovered from his illness; an awful hangover) were sitting in bed together, laughing at God-knows-what, a feast of pork chops, coleslaw, and Harrod’s candy lain out before them. Both of their eyes were very, very red for some unknown reason. Mummy Rick was there too, with a big pile of fairy dust! Everyone looked so very happy, but happiest of all was Little Roger Riding Hood!

“This isn’t how it’s supposed to happen!” He pointed to Syd Wolf. “This is where you eat David-”

Granny Gilmour was terribly affronted but in his own unique, smiley sort of way.

“I think that’s jolly unfair. I think I’m ever-so necessary to the plot-”

“And then you wait in bed to…’attack’ me.”

“Well, em…” Syd looked at him thoughtfully. “I didn’t feel like it. I’m not into that whole ravaging scene, you know? Would you like a chop?”

“NO, I WOULD NOT LIKE A CHOP! I’M ROGER WATERS AND I WANT EVERYONE TO DO WHAT I SAY AND HOW I SAY IT!” He pointed at Mummy Rick. “ESPECIALLY YOU.”

Just then a Ferrari drove into the cottage, somehow managing not to kill the occupants or disturb the foundation very much. Huntsman Nick stepped out with a big smile on his face, trousers around his knees, and a pristine copy of ‘Outside In’ in his hands.

“Hello, everyone! I hope I’m in time for the all-night rave up!”

And Huntsman Nick was! All the evening long everyone ate many chops, danced, and listened to Little Roger Riding Hood bitch and moan. Syd Wolf got his dinner, Granny Gilmour got his Acapulco Gold, Mummy Rick got his fix, and Huntsman Nick finally got to bag his wolf. It was a merry scene for all involved.

And they all lived happily ever after with the exception of Roger, who was the only one that didn’t get laid. Sucks to be him.

The End.
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Little Roger Riding Hood