In the spring of 1696, along the southwestern shores of Lake Michigan, the Jesuit priest Father Pierre François Pinet established the Mission of the Guardian Angel, aiming to convert and serve the local indigenous tribes. The mission was situated near the area known as “Chicago,” a name believed to be derived from the Miami-Illinois word šikaakwa, a pungent wild leek plant native to the marshy lakefront. But the Jesuits soon found out they were horribly wrong about the the name “Chicago.” And what followed was a summer of sheer terror and insanity.
That June, as the mission’s devout followers labored to tend to the spiritual and physical needs of both settlers and indigenous people alike, a presence emerged from the shadowed wetlands—a mischievous, otherworldly skunk spirit. This was no ordinary creature of fur and odor; it was a being woven from the ancient energies of the land, its name lost to time but its mischief unmistakable. In hushed tones, tribal elders recalled the ancient Ojibwe word mishi-zhigaagosh – the real origin of the word “Chicago.” Also known as “aniwye,” this primordial ancestor to modern skunks was known for its deadly, noxious emissions that could incapacitate or kill, and was deeply feared by the native tribes.
Around midsummer, an unnatural stench crept over the mission. The odor was so dreadful that the the air seemed to thicken with an almost tangible malevolence. The spirit’s arrival was heralded by eerie whispers that rustled through the mission’s candlelit corridors—a voice that echoed in both French and the native tongue of the local people. As the terror spread, the once-united community of the mission began to fracture. Fear supplanted hope, and the protective chants of the faithful were drowned out by the spectral laughter of a being who reveled in chaos.
As the days turned into nights, the skunk spirit danced unseen among the pillars of the mission, its presence marked by phantom footprints and sudden gusts of foul wind. It seemed to mock the sacred rites, twisting prayers and blessings into garbled curses. The spirit, in its capricious nature, revealed itself in flashes—a silhouette outlined by the moon’s glow, a wisp of smoke accompanied by that uncanny, lingering odor. Some whispered that the creature was angered by the intrusion of the missionaries into its ancient territory, a land it had long guarded and nurtured with the wild freedom of nature.
Then, one fateful night, Father Pinet awoke in his chambers to find himself completely alone, yet suffocated by an overwhelming stench. As he gasped for breath, his skin tingled with an eerie sensation—a transformation beyond flesh, beyond spirit. The aniwye had chosen him as its vessel. His robes, once pristine, now carried the unbearable scent of the spirit’s essence. No matter how much he bathed, how fervently he prayed, the stink clung to him like a second skin. His brethren recoiled, their faces contorted in horror, as his speech grew erratic, his gestures exaggerated. His once-serene voice now carried an unsettling lilt, a singsong mockery of the sermons he once preached.
His madness deepened, and he soon gained the moniker “Pierre Le Fou.” He would prowl the perimeter of the settlement at night, arms spread wide as though in search of an embrace, whispering sweet nothings to the empty air. The few who remained at the mission spoke of how he would appear suddenly behind them, grinning, cooing in French-accented murmurs, reaching out as if to woo an invisible lover. His presence became unbearable. Even the most devout could no longer stand the stench that followed him. The mission, already on the brink of collapse under the spirit’s torment, finally fell to ruin as its last faithful fled into the wilderness, leaving only Pinet to wander its empty halls.
Over the years, the tale of the mad priest of Chicago twisted and turned in the telling. His amorous pursuit of the unseen, his ever-present stench, and his exaggerated mannerisms became less a horror story and more a jest—a farcical relic of a forgotten past. Some say that, long after the mission crumbled, French traders passing through the area told tales of a wandering fool, a man who smelled of the skunk and spoke with a flirtatious air, seeking affection where none was given.
Centuries later, a certain group of animators at Warner Bros. heard of the legend and saw in it the makings of a character—one who was both charming and repellent, amorous yet absurd, forever cursed with an inescapable stench. Thus, Father Pinet’s madness was immortalized, reborn in ink and film, as the world came to know “Pierre Le Fou” by a different name: Pepé Le Pew.
