Once upon a time in a quintessential central European hamlet lived a young girl named Little Red Riding Wolf. Her real name was Annaliese, but everyone called her Little Red Riding Wolf because of the scarlet riding cape she wore wherever she went. She was also a wolf, but in an age of Tumblr triggers people didn’t want to kick up a scoff.

One day, as Little Red Riding Wolf was out catching colds, her mother summoned her. So Little Red Riding Wolf let the colds go back to play with their friends and skipped over to the back door. "Annaliese," said her mother, "Your grandmother is feeling poorly. I think your cousin Kerstin was watching My Little Pony when she was visiting and now Grandma-ma has contracted the diabeetus. Please take this basket of assorted items to comfort her in her ill state." She then handed her daughter a wicker basket so big, lesser children would have struggled to lift it two-handed.

"Take this advice with you," her mother added: "Don't stray from the path; you never know what they've sprayed the grass with. Don't talk to strangers; any one might be an American spy. And don't agree to any financial investment strategy on the first meeting, no matter what they say." The woman's eyes became misty at this as she murmured, "Your poor father..."

"Okay, Mama," said Little Red Riding Wolf. Turning about, she skipped down the path into the forest behind the residential zone. In an age of perpetual immigrant fear-mongering and the English Defence League, most little girls would have felt frightened walking in the woods without a high-powered machine gun or bodyguard escort, but not Little Red Riding Wolf. As an apex predator twice over, the only thing she had to fear was Sarah Palin's aerial hunting. She confidently skipped along, whistling a merry tune as birds chirped overhead and squirrels scurried about in the bushes.

All of a sudden, Little Red Riding Wolf stopped, sensing a presence. In response, a gaunt man strode out from behind a narrow tree onto the path ahead. He wore a pressed suit and tiny round spectacles, clutching a large briefcase in one hand. "Good day, little miss," he greeted, extending his hand for a professional shake.

"Good day, sir," Little Red Riding Wolf answered, shaking his hand.

"It is unusual to find so young a lady wandering the woods without a reasonably powerful machine gun," he observed.

"Or escort," added Little Red Riding Wolf.

"Why do you skip along so, whistling a merry tune?"

"Mama says I shouldn't talk to strangers," said Little Red Riding Wolf.

"A wise woman, your mother," said the man, "You never know what sort of amateur schemers prowl these woods. I, however, am fully accredited." He reached into his pocket and produced a business card, handing it to the girl. Apparently, the man was a stockbroker.

"I am taking this basket of assorted items to my grandmother, who is feeling poorly," Little Red Riding Wolf answered.

"A noble task indeed," the stockbroker stated. "It is a shame that I cannot accompany you, but I must go and complete a transaction with Mr. and Mrs. Beaver, so good day to you!"

"And you, sir!"

And so the gaunt stockbroker with the pressed suit walked back into the bushes. Little Red Riding Wolf casually wondered if they lived far south enough for beavers in the first place. She continued skipping along until she caught scent of deer somewhere off the trail. Scorning her mother's warnings about liberal use of pesticides, she crept down an embankment to see if she could find the deer. Not to eat—she was much too small to tackle one fully-grown, and besides, she didn't know the first thing about field-dressing.

Levelling out at the bottom of the slope, Little Red Riding Wolf spied some pansies in a circle around a campfire. Kneeling down she began to pick them up, leading to a flurry of indignant protests. Once she'd picked them all, however, she spied some flowers further afield. Carefully sending the pansies off to boot camp, Little Red Riding Wolf crawled over and picked a bouquet of Hieracium specimens, putting them inside the basket along with the other assorted items. She never quite understood why her mother always slew them while mowing the lawn; allegedly they were weeds but she always liked them. Care package personalized, Little Red Riding Wolf returned to the path and continued to her grandmother's house.

Meanwhile, the gaunt stockbroker had followed a shortcut to Little Red Riding Wolf's grandmother's house. Senior citizens, especially those still living on their own, often had a tidy reserve of financial assets, ripe for speculative investment, and he intended to be the first to tap the proverbial well. Walking in business-like he accosted the defenceless woman in her kitchen-cum-living room and without a moment's hesitation launched into a precisely-timed and professionally-worded primer on the long-term benefits of day-trading both to her own retirement fund and her inheritable estate. But his spiel fell on (metaphorically) deaf ears, as having lived through the hungry years of the war, Grandma-ma was diametrically opposed to spending beyond one's means, and the sheer incomprehensibility of the derivative swap process bored her right to sleep.

The stockbroker frowned. But all was not lost! The woman's granddaughter was on her way and he might yet manage to close a deal by the end of the day. Hastily stuffing the unconscious grandmother in a nearby closet, he pilfered her financial statements. Hearing a knock at the door, he dashed into the bedroom and leaped under the covers. "Come in," he called in a raspy voice.

"Hello, Grandma-ma!" called Little Red Riding Wolf, "I've brought you some assorted items to speed in your recovery."

"Such a thoughtful granddaughter!" cooed the stockbroker, "Why don't you set down by the kitchen?"

So Little Red Riding Wolf did just that. As she placed the basket on the kitchen counter, a jet-black cat leaped up beside it. "Hi, Leberecht!" she said, scratching him behind the ears.

"Mew," said the cat, holding up a page from Grandma-ma's quote-a-day calendar. It read: 'Sullied is she who buys on margin with no savings to support herself when the market tanks.'

"Come into the bedroom, dear," called the stockbroker, "I have important matters to discuss." While the house was full of Grandma-ma's scent, there was a strange streak of cheap cologne about the place. Little Red Riding Wolf's suspicion only grew as she stood at the foot of the bed.

"Grandma-ma!" Little Red Riding Wolf exclaimed, "What round spectacles you have!"

"All the better to interpret the fine print, my dear," the stockbroker answered.

"Grandma-ma!" Little Red Riding Wolf exclaimed, "What pressed suit you have!"

"All the better to make a good first impression, my dear," the stockbroker answered.

From inside the closet, Little Red Riding Wolf's grandmother's snores shook the windows. "Grandma-ma!" Little Red Riding Wolf exclaimed, "What advanced congestion you have!"

"All the better to—er, hold on, I got this..."

Then Little Red Riding Wolf spied the stockbroker's briefcase sitting at the end of the bed. "Grandma-ma!" she exclaimed, "What professional business portfolio you have!"

"All the better to transport the necessary paperwork to negotiate a high-return investment strategy with YOU, my dear!" Throwing off the sheets, the stockbroker leaped from the bed, stocks in hand. Within seconds he had Little Red Riding Wolf backed into a corner, gold-plated pen held forth for her to sign a deal that called for a pretty optimistic reading of the current trading figures.

Just as she was about to sign, a lumberjack named Menno, who did regular landscaping work for Grandmother's house and thus is totally justified in turning up, burst into the house. After a nanosecond's appraisal of the situation, he lifted his axe high above his head, and with a mighty swing, presented an alternative, low-risk investment strategy achieved through a diversified portfolio.

The gaunt stockbroker recoiled in disgust. Grabbing his briefcase, he dove out the nearest window and sprinted through the woods and out of sight. "Thank you for providing an outside perspective!" said Little Red Riding Wolf.

"No problem at all," he replied, "No little girl should be forced into complex financial management strategies against her will." Then Little Red Riding Wolf and the lumberjack named Menno got Grandma-ma out of the closet, and they sat down to low-sodium biscuits and wholesome real, not processed, cheese.

And everyone but the Deutscher Aktienindex and Deutsche Börse AG lived happily ever after.