Rooster had been driving around town for nearly an hour, trying in vain to stumble across Mrs. Piggy and her Jaguar. He revved the engine impatiently at every stop, all the while throwing malevolent stares at Piggy. Finally he rolled to a stop near Frosch Fuel on highway 24 and turned off the truck.

Rooster sighed. Piggy finally broke the silence.

“She’s my wife, and I’m not upset about the Bunny. Let it go.”

Rooster continued to stare out of the dirty windshield in silence, his only movements to occasionally smooth the feathers in his hackle with one wing. Finally, he nodded his head in acceptance, his wattles brushing the steering wheel.

“If the Pig is okay,” he said slowly, “the Rooster is okay.”

“That’s good, Roo-...”

In a flurry of feathers, Rooster half-flew out the cab and began cautiously approaching the small building adjacent the rusty fuel pumps. Confused, Piggy stumbled out of the truck.

“This the Frog’s station,” Rooster hissed, “but that not be the Frog at the register. Come on, Pig.”