Chapter 1: Old Wolf, Old Tricks
Wolf groaned as he hauled himself out of his beat-up old car. His joints cracked like an entire orchestra of castanets. The courtyard of the drab apartment block greeted the new day: somewhere nearby a garbage truck screeched its brakes, a pair of crows squabbled over scraps, and on a bench two pensioners were already whispering about politics as if it were a state secret. Wolf sighed, stretched his aching back, and grumbled under his breath.
“Eh, what an old nag I’ve become… Used to run so fast the dust would fly, and now…” he muttered. He gingerly massaged his lower back, which was throbbing in protest, reminding him that these days his only “second wind” came from an inhaler.
More than forty years had passed since Wolf’s wild youth. Back in the old Soviet days, he’d been quite the troublemaker—chasing Hare across every beach, construction site, and stadium he could find, endlessly shouting his signature catchphrase: “Just you wait, Bunny!” At the time it felt like life was endless, that youth would last forever. But in the end, only one thing truly turned out to be eternal: that never-ending chase, which, alas, never did conclude with Wolf’s triumph.
Now Wolf was pushing seventy (in human years). Life had knocked him around a bit. He’d even worked as a supermarket security guard for a while—until he got fired for trying to chase down a certain long-eared shoplifter who bolted past the checkout. He’d worked as a taxi driver too, which he actually enjoyed; turning a steering wheel was easier on the bones than hauling heavy loads, and the variety of passengers kept life interesting. Plus, in his cab he could play whatever music his heart desired—be it schmaltzy Russian crooners or classic Queen rock anthems. The only downside was how stiff his back got from all those hours sitting, and how his eyes struggled to see at night these days.
Wolf pulled out a cigarette—a habit left over from his youth, despite the doctor’s constant scolding: “Quit it, you old fool, your lungs aren’t made of rubber!” He flicked his cheap lighter (a giveaway from a tire shop) and only managed to spark a flame on the third try. Inhaling deeply, he let out a ring of smoke and gave a wry smirk.
“Ah, to heck with it…” he rasped to himself, watching the smoke swirl. “Out of all the joys of youth, at least I’ve got a bit of smoke left. Before you know it, they’ll ban that too—can’t let an old wolf have any fun, can they?”
