Once upon a time, in a forest crawling with filth, corruption, and fat-cat lobbyists, there lived the three little piggies—known far and wide as the Sisters of Mercy. They were a fine-looking bunch, all dolled up in their little blue suits, tails neatly curled, ready for the cameras, always chattering on about justice and equality and the dire need to keep the Big Bad Pigfuck at bay.

Pigfuck was no ordinary wolf, mind you. He was a massive, hulking beast of a creature, slicked in corporate grease, his snout buried deep in the feeding troughs of industry. The kind of monster who could blow your house down without so much as a sneeze. Pigfuck didn’t just terrorize the forest; he owned it. Everywhere he went, he left a trail of stock options, tax breaks, and non-disclosure agreements. He was the ultimate power broker, a carnivorous Wall Street Frankenstein stitched together from military contracts, energy subsidies, and all the greed money could buy.

Now, the Sisters of Mercy had one job: keep Pigfuck from tearing the forest to pieces. But instead of fortifying their homes, they sat around their little house of straw, squawking about the horrors of Pigfuck, lamenting his tyrannical reign. “Oh, the wolf is such a terror! Just look at him slobbering over our resources, crushing the poor under his hooves!” they cried, as if naming the beast would somehow exorcize him. Their solution? Statements. Endless statements about the dangers of Pigfuck and the importance of standing up to him. Meanwhile, Pigfuck was doubling down on his rampage, buying up half the forest and lining his den with the hides of those who dared challenge him.

The Sisters built themselves a second house, this one out of sticks—committee meetings, town halls, press releases—but all it took was one blow from Pigfuck, and it went up in a cloud of PR dust. They just stood there, picking up the splinters, still yammering on about how someone had to do something. Because that’s the thing about the Sisters of Mercy—they loved to talk about saving the forest but didn’t have a spine between them when it came to actually keeping Pigfuck out. Oh, they’d cluck and they’d preen, and they’d wag their curly little tails, but when the beast came huffing and puffing, all they could do was watch him stomp through the rubble.

In the end, the Sisters built a third house, this one out of bricks. It was sturdy enough, built on lofty speeches and activist catchphrases, just enough to keep Pigfuck from blowing it down in one swoop. But inside those walls, the Sisters were up to the same old game—clinking wine glasses, swapping platitudes, and counting donations while Pigfuck prowled outside, still devouring every inch of the forest that wasn’t behind their pretty brick wall.

And so, Pigfuck continued his reign, growing fatter, meaner, more ruthless by the day, while the Sisters of Mercy held tight to their illusions of resistance. They’d throw parties to “raise awareness,” host soirées to “build morale,” all the while pretending their house of bricks was a fortress of change. But they knew, deep down, they weren’t doing a damn thing to stop him. They were just three little piggies, snug and self-righteous, too afraid to face the beast they’d rather just complain about.

In the end, the forest wasn’t lost because Pigfuck was powerful. It was lost because the Sisters of Mercy thought pointing at the monster was the same as fighting him.