Thursday, July 31, 2008

cat back

CAT BACK
SHIT I GOT CAT BACK!........WHY WON'T SHE SHUT THE FUCK UP? I JUST WANT TO GO HOME............ THIS REMINDS ME OF THE FIRST TIME I GOT CAT BACK. I WAS MAYBE 5 YEARS OLD AND ABOUT 2 DAYS AFTER BEING BITTEN BY A STRAY CAT....SORT OF? IT WAS MY CAT, LION, WHO RAN AWAY MAYBE 6 MOUTHS BEFORE. WHEN LION WAS JUST A CUB HIS BROTHER TIGER, I KNOW "HOW ORIGINAL" BUT THEY BOTH WHERE ORANGE/BROWN,ONE STRIPED THE OTHER NAKED.....I'M GETTING AWAY FROM THE FACTS! TIGER DIED OF A STRANGE INFECTION THAT POORED FROM HIS EYES ......THOSE DEADLY TEARS. WE MOVED SOON AFTER THAT, BUT APON ARRIVAL HE SKIPPED OUT AND I DIDN'T SEE HIM TILL THAT DAY. SITTING ON THE FENCE STARRING RIGHT AT ME....WAITING FOR ME. I WALKED OVER AND PICKED HIM UP IN MY ARMS. THATS WHEN HE BIT ME! FROM THAT DAY FORWARD I COULD'T SLEEP. I WOULD NAP. IN THE AFTER NOON, MAYBE A COUPLE HOURS, AND THAT DREADED TIME OF DAY BETWEEN 4 AND 7 AM.
O.K!..... DINNER'S DONE CAN WE GO NOW? WHAT? COFFEE?.....I DON'T EVEN DRINK COFFEE! THIS MEANS MORE THEN 25 MINUTES OF MORE TALKING. WHEN I WAS 7 I USED TO HAVE TO COUNT THE SECONDS AND MINUTES AFTER MY MOM WENT TO SLEEP......ONCE YOU HEAR HER SNORRING COUNT OUT 20 MINUTES THEN SNEAK INTO THE LIVING ROOM, TURN THE T.V. ON AND TURN THE VOLUME DOWN. WAIT! WAIT! O.K. FIRST COMMERCIAL TURN IT UP A BIT. NEXT ONE A BIT MORE........A HOUR OF PATTANCE EQUALED YEARS OF FREEDOM. SHE NEVER COUGHT ON.
ANOTHER COFFEE!?...........THIS WILL KEEP HER UP TALKING ALL NIGHT.......I'M NEVER GETTING OUT OF HERE..........GREAT! SHE'S FLIRTING WITH NEIGHBOR.....YOU TRAMP.....GO A HEAD CHAT IT UP, YOU KNOW WHAT HE WANTS? RIGHT? THAT'S RIGHT... REMEMBER YOU HAVE CHILDERN...COMPOSE YOUR SELF. EVERY ONE IN THE ROOM CAN SEE RIGHT THROW HER........................I'M GOING TO KILL HER. BUT HOW? HERE? WHAT BETTER PLACE AND TIME? BUT I CAN'T DO IT RIGHT NOW, WITH THESE PEOPLE SOMEONE'S SURE TO STOP ME. GOTTA THINK OF SOMETHING......AND QUIK. SICKNESS, PAIN, WHAT?....................SEX. SEX ALWAYS GETS ATTENTION. I KNOW THIS.........SO I TAKE MY HAND AND PLACE IT ON HER LEG....SHE STOPS TALKING AND LOOKED DOWN....I MOVED MY HAND CLOSER AND CLOSER TO HER CROUCH......I LOOKED IN TO HER EYE AND SAID ......................"MOM, CAN I TALK TO YOU OUT SIDE?"

The Further Adventures of Val Williams # 1 - Bad Moon Rising pt. V

The child is psychotic, there’s no question about it. I can’t overpower him, he’s in a frenzy. His little arms are moving too fast, I can’t grab them or make him stop attacking me. A woman screams with a mighty fury, off somewhere in the background. This is humiliating, I’m being beaten up by a ten year old. Something dangles down and hits me in the chest, something containing a great kind of power. In a ditch effort, I stop shielding my face with my arms for a second and snatch the thing from around the boy’s neck.

A moon rock. The boy falls back onto the pavement. I get up and hold the object up, while the boy jumps and scratches, trying to get the thing back. He’s still in a frenzy, but his power’s gone, he got his power from the moon rock. The woman who screamed runs off, west on Kildare, she saw everything. What did she think she saw exactly?

“Alright,” a voice behind me says, “give me the rock.”

I turn around, the voice is attached to a well-dressed gun-wielding maniac. I recognize this guy from the papers.

“What, this?” I say, grabbing the kid and shoving him in front of me.

Out of the corner of my eye, the street kids start east on Kildare, directed by … a man in a trench coat, waving them home like a third base coach.

The gun cocks.

“Alright, alright, alright,” I say, thinking on my feet, “here, Mr. Khaddafy, I’m walking over, and I’m giving you the rock.”

I get half way over and he says, “that’s far enough. Throw it to me.”

“Throw it,” I say, changing plans, “uh…”

Before the bastard can react, I place the rock in the kid’s hand and toss him right into Khaddafy’s chest with all my strength. The kid tears into him real good, too. But I can’t hang around and watch, I’ve got a screaming woman to catch.

***

Abbott noticed a faint blue glow emanating from the cemetery, which grew brighter and stronger. The wind kicked up dirt and stark pages of newspapers and technicolor fliers. With a sigh he checked to see if his gun was still holstered since the last time he checked, thirty seconds before. Mouthing a silent curse, he ran towards the cemetery with his gun ready.

***

Be sure to tune in next month for The Further Adventures of Val Williams # 2: The Dead Walk!

Who?

By Robert Hacker, jr.

When news hit about Sebastian “RuWolf” Fang’s death, I had to laugh. I thought, this must be a joke. They can’t be serious. They want us to believe a man of great moral strength would take the coward’s way out. Impossible.

Calling in to sources within the Anti-Werewolf Forces (never asking for attribution, of course) has proven fruitless. They are not talking, which lends one to believe that they aren’t on top of this and probably had little to do with Mr Fang’s end.

And if not them, then who?

Rumours do circulate and it doesn’t exactly take a detective named Holmes to figure it all out. Heck, the Pink Panther might stumble on to the answers.

Looking over my last notes I dug in to the final scene and was reminded of the soviet guard who helped me leave Spandau prison. A nice young man, good looking enough to marry my daughter and always in control; while I stayed in Spandau prison, he was an island of calm. When we were leaving I recall writing that he was the opposite of that calmness. He was hurried and ill looking and I had to be transferred to the next guards so that I might get out and he might get some help.

A transformation in to a werewolf for the first time must be a traumatic experience. This soviet guard showed all the signs of a man going through this traumatic transformation – the frothing mouth, the rising tensions in his muscles, and the dark tone of fear in his voice. True, this is all speculation without a grain of physical proof. Maybe he was bitten by rat and contracted rabies. The again we are talking about a guard who works in a prison that housed a werewolf.

I remembered what the American guard told me as the soviet guard led me to the elevator that was to take the soviet guard and I from the underground level to the floor level. He said: “Shee-ucks, if every werewolf were like Mr Fang we wouldn’t be afraid of no full moon.”

Shee-ucks, he was right. If every werewolf were like Sebastian “RuWolf” Fang…

Let’s assume that Mr Fang’s speech on the Reichstag and his article circulated around the globe spoke for a large segment of werewolves. Who spoke for the others? Their silence is deafening.

Werewolves don’t really like the limelight, at least those who are committed to werewolf rule. And make no doubt about it; there are those who wish great harm to the human race. They prefer the end of day when they can watch the moon appear in the dusky sky and become husky high. When Mr Fang came out on the Reichstag they took notice like the rest of us. Only they did not like what they were seeing.

Werewolves openly shunning their true nature and working with humans seemed like a bad idea to these guys. RuWolf was beginning his work on connecting humans and werewolves. He was conducting interviews, telling more werewolves to put their fangs away. There are elements in this world who think there is only one way. Mr Fang’s diction opposed this view.

Questions surely must go answered. Who does the Anti-Werewolf Forces work for? Who pays for them? How much? Are there any other werewolves organisations out there trying to undo what Mr Fang and his Werewolf Nation have done? The world is under a threat that can’t be measured accurately as the numbers released by the AWWF do not suggest the actual true number of humans attacked by werewolves worldwide. What are the real numbers?

To think that a man who came out of hiding to tell people he is who he is would take his own life seems inaccurate. In fact, it is impossible. The most important question of all: who killed RuWolf?

Wednesday, July 30, 2008

The Further Adventures of Val Williams # 1 - Bad Moon Rising pt. IV

Victory Square, part of Old Colonial Town, the heritage district. The centuries-old buildings are still put to good use, mostly as museums and whistle-stops, but the grounds of Romero Cemetery stay busy with the toils of gravediggers. Abbott didn’t know what he was supposed to be waiting for, but he made sure to park as far away from the cemetery as possible. He opened the glove compartment, and shoed aside loose batteries, a few CDs, and a neat stack of napkins. He stared at the dull black of his standard issue Glock 17 semi-automatic pistol. Truth was, he hated to even look at the thing. He’d never had to fire it, and brought it out only sparingly on certain high-risk field assignments. This was one of those assignments.

***

The Heights. You want to know the truth about humanity, you go to the Heights. See true human nature, boiled down to its purest jungle essence. The cops hate this place, so they don’t come around too often. The perfect landing spot for the armies of hell.

But for tonight, it’s a good thing this place is stuffed with brick buildings. I got off the bus at Zero Ave, five blocks north of Kildare, on Chilton. Walked back down from there, saw a lot of suspicious looking people, but it’d be downright rude of me to classify any of them as demons. Vagrants mostly, down-and-outers, petty criminals, the all-stars of desperation. And I’m desperate, too, and it has nothing to do with the fact that I live in a burnt-out old church on the outskirts of town.

I hide underneath some garbage bags beside the front stoop of a decrepit tenement. Oh God, I think somebody took a shit in this corner! Alright you bastards, this had better be worth it.

***

Abbott lit a smoke and couldn’t stop flicking it. He’d pace from one end of the block to the other, then find a dry spot to sit for about thirty seconds, then continue his circuit. Nothing out of the ordinary was going on. Couples stumbled by, laughing, arm-in-arm; cars rolled by real slow with music blasting to make a point, looking for a crowd of people to impress. Every now and then he noticed a street kid wandering into the cemetery, but that couldn’t be worth noting. The streets were covered with those damn kids.

***

Something about those little urchins across the street catches my interest. There‘s nothing interesting about them, really, but still. Call it a hunch. What are they gathered there, in the shadows, for? Nobody’s around, it’s time I blow my filthy cover and find out for myself.

They start when they see me pop out of the trash like Oscar the grouch. One goes off, running, the rest of them stay put. They see me coming, there’s a weird kinship at play, here. They think I’m homeless like them. Well…

“Hey,” I manage to blurt out, just as I sense the blue cloudy odor of supernatural energy scampering up behind me. I turn just in time to be bowled over by a raging midget. No, it’s not a midget, it’s a boy, and the little ankle biter is trying to claw my eyes out.

TBC...

Interview pt.4

Time in the cell is closing. Soon, very soon, the prison guards will cut short the interview with Sebastian “RuWolf” Fang. And it has been 12 hours. But when the leader of the Werewolf Nation speaks, you listen for as long as he is speaking – regardless of how your body and mind are straining.

A prison guard knocks assertively on the cell’s iron door. This is the universe that inciting lycanthropy can bring you – a complete cosmos unintended for normal men, hidden under the most of the world, seven storeys deep and forgotten about except those that keep him here.

“Got FAH-ve minutes, ok,” said a guard in his deep southern US drawl.

It isn’t the prison guards that bother Mr Fang. For them, this palace of the damned is a job like any other. These young men from three corners of the planet could just as easily be working on your car as keeping werewolves in a pen. This job has better benefits and it is, however technical, serving the country – their country, which might just be the stars and stripes and the sickle and hammer at the same time. Some guards are Soviet Russian, other guards are monarchist English, and some are good ol’ fashion republican Americans. They all have values. They all follow rules.

“Ok? Duh ya here me?” yelled the prison guard through the sliding window on the iron door.

Once he sees that the interview is wrapping up, the guard backs off and slides the window closed.

“Not bad kids. They are doing a job,” said Mr Fang when the window is closed.

Part of the dilemma he lives with here in Spandau prison is the fact that he likes his guards. Call it Stockholm syndrome if you must, but what is really going on here and has been since the day Mr Fang began his imprisonment is a mutual respect he shares with the guards. They are both stuck in a place no kid dreams about being stuck in. Well at least no normal kid.

“I have never met a guard in this prison who says to me: ‘thank goodness I am here. What a great career path.’ That would be ridiculous to assume anyone wants to be here. Well except Hess, but as I have said (check the second instalment) he is a bastard anyways and no one likes him.”

When he is told that Hess has his own private room that acts as an open yard and house for him, Mr Fang’s skin seems to tense up. He swallows his words and smiles.

“This is fine. He is 93-years-old. He is still paying his dues.”

As for ever fully paying his dues, there is apparently zero chance you will ever see RuWolf on the streets again. According to sources in both Washington and Moscow they have no desire to see Mr Fang on the streets ever again. They like him just where is and even if that means inciting other werewolves to lash out, who might have otherwise followed the peaceful lead of Mr Fang, they are willing to live with these consequences. An anonymous source within the Anti-Werewolf Forces said that the US government in particular is happy to see the werewolves lash out. It makes them much easier to hunt.

“Lives of a few citizens do not measure up to the future of the planet,” said the source. “We all must do our part in ’87 to stamp out the scourge.”

All Mr Fang can do is shake his thick head when told of the AWWF’s intentions. He remains silent for the final few minutes we’re allowed. When the door opens up, Mr Fang’s face grows more animated if only for a second.

“You must let them know we can’t go on like this,” said Mr Fang calmly. “We must find peace.”

As I turned to ask him what he meant by this, the door shuts and a soviet guard leads me from the room. I venture to ask the soviet guard if he wants to say something to the western world, to become a soviet star in Canada.

“Nit,” is all he says. But the southern American guard pipes up from down the hall.

“Yeah, Jesus, we ain’t got anything against Mr Fang. Shee-ucks, if every werewolf could be like him we would fear no full moon.”

The soviet guard pushes me towards the elevator before I can turn my head and ask any further questions to the American guard.

Inside the elevator I can see the werewolf’s door open and two guards go in. I ask my soviet Spandau tour guide what they are going to do in there.

“Clean,” he says in rough English.

Going up the elevator floor I stare in to the guard’s eyes. I am looking for some sign of fear or contentment or strength. If I could see what these men think of Mr Fang without saying a word, that would give me a fuller picture of the werewolf.

In the guard’s blue eyes I see none of what I expect. I see danger and tension. And I can feel it. Once the door opens to the floor level we pass through a hall with barred-windows and we get a great view of the full moon… I had forgotten how long we were underneath for. It was the crushing heat of morning when I entered Spandau prison. It was now dusk and the full moon was lighting up. I began to scribble the last notes of my voyage in to Spandau prison in a spare notepad I carry in my jacket pocket.

“You must hurry,” said the guard.

“But he can’t see the moon and isn’t that the point,” I reassure the guard. Maybe he lost the point in translation because he says to me again: “you must hurry.”

The tension in his voice rises to a dark level and he asks me to look and not to listen to his words. I can see his body sweat pouring off his face and I wonder if he is sick and needs a bathroom. He tries to speak again but foam bubbles to the edge of his mouth and other guards quickly respond to his failing capacity to usher me out. Still, other guards attend to him as he falls to the ground.

I am quickly led to the Spandau prison gates and am told that the Nazi hellhole is now on lock-down, that it would be in my best interest to remove myself from the area.

The area is covered in shadows and they crawl under the cars and dash behind the trees like secret agents. I wonder who they might be. AWWF? The Werewolf Nation?

A hoarse howl screams from the bowls of Spandau prison. A furious picture is drawn in my head, blood and savagery spreading out behind the iron bars and guns are powerless to stop that picture. Passion and hedonism are the real masters and the hoarse howl yelps louder still.

Listening intently for several hours outside of the Spandau prison, I note the navy blue sky and its dim stars and dominant moon fading away with the early morning dawn. You can’t get this view if you are Rudolf Hess, or “RuWolf” Fang or a prison guard.

Yes, from the inside it all seems to be light years away.

Saturday, July 26, 2008

Interview pt.3

To say that conditions in Spandau prison have deteriorated is understating the experience. Slime and dereliction cover the cement walls. Water puddles left over from rainy days remind you of having been somewhere better and drier. Beds remained unchanged for weeks. Blood paints the sinks with crimson speckles.

The four powers (US, UK, Soviet Union and France) are in depreciation mode here. Once Rudolf Hess is dead that’s it for the prison. The prisoners will be moved, the walls will crumble and the 111-year-old prison will be no more. The four powers claim it is to prevent Spandau being a shrine for Neo-Nazis. Sebastian “RuWolf” Fang believes it’s to hide all the secrets this terrible prison holds.

“I’ve seen some things that make my eyes jump out of my head,” said Mr Fang, finishing the last morsels of Soviet Union speciality prison food, rotting spinach and beans roll. “Like what exactly type of spinach is this?” He holds up the last piece of “spinach” between his fingers and shows its yellow colour. “I had no idea green spinach came in yellow,” said Mr Fang with a laugh.

There is no time frame for Rudolf Hess’ death. You can’t plan these kinds of things. But he is 93-years-old and there is no doubt that he has plunged in to senility and ill-health. A natural death cannot be far off.

Then there is RuWolf Fang. He is a sprite 66-year-old, lively as they come. Yes, he admits it is possibly because he is a werewolf. No, he doesn’t think it is because of the healthy food he’s fed. A natural death is miles away.

But he was given an unlimited prison sentence, the first of its kind, for inciting lycanthropy (IL) – a law that has not been in practice since the late 1700s. He has no idea when there will be a limit to his stay.

“It’s all fear. You guys (the media he means), the governments, the military, they all want you to be afraid. You should be. These Anti-Werewolf Forces are the scariest thing on earth. Prisons like Spandau should not exist. Nobody knows if this work is from government funding or from private enterprises. Nobody can answer it in government. Nobody can answer it on the street. And definitely, nobody can answer it in the Werewolf Nation. And we have been fighting these bastards for a decade.” Mr Fang sighed. He breathes in a bit and looks over his prison cell. “It’s all fear.”

RuWolf Fang was charged on December 12, 1986 for IL. He was sentenced one week later with no defence and no witnesses. He wrote an article that was widely published days before his sentencing, knowing full well that he was going to Spandau prison, a cemetery of written word. He claimed in the article that governments around the world should be dealing with bigger issues than werewolf activity. No government agency responded publicly to the article and it is unknown if they heeded any of his words after he was placed in Spandau. The AWWF still acts around the globe with impunity, with no transparency to their work. Any time they are asked to give interviews they respond only through the anonymous sourcing they love. Ostensibly this is to protect them from sourced responsibility. Regardless, they have western government support. And they act like it too.

“For years I could feel them chasing me. As a werewolf that’s just a skill. But even our human supporters would tell me that they sensed them, too; over looking their shoulders,” Mr Fang said.

The night the AWWF came knocking on his Berlin apartment door he was waiting. So why did he not run? In no uncertain terms, Mr Fang decided he had run enough.

“I was sitting across from Johnny Chen, as strong a werewolf if ever I had known one, and he was very relaxed on that day in May. He had been out all night with his human girlfriend and he had been able to tell her the truth. He told her everything about himself. It was something we discussed on our voyages to the Black Forest a decade before. Telling the truth was the key to relaxation. But it was truth within the group. Everything else outside the group was just theoretical.

“Johnny joined us only earlier this year. But the thing is he is very bright and picked up on what we were doing right away. So when he told me he had told his HUMAN girlfriend about his reality, I knew then I was sick of running. A weight had been lifted on my shoulders and I felt it was time to carry that weight to the Reichstag.”

Months before the speech, in his little Berlin apartment, Mr Fang met with his fellow Werewolf Nation members and told them that he felt the need for another shift in the werewolf movement.

Leading up the famed Reichstag speech on November 21, 1986, he wanted the human race to know the truth.

And he gave it to them.

On a wintery November evening, Mr Fang gave his speech in front of thousands of West Berliners who were left gobsmacked by the Werewolf Nation leader’s words. Thousands began crying out evil names and horrifying anti-Communist slogans. They were given the Werewolf Nation side of things. But that could not have mattered less.

“There we were telling them the most important fact of our existence and all they cared about was anti-communism. I felt we had been ignored right in front of our faces.”

But they weren’t ignored. Hours later an AAWF agent showed up at the Werewolf Nation after-party and spoke privately with Mr Fang. He told him that they weren’t pursuing him, so he could stay in Berlin. But if he left they were going to hunt and kill him.

This memory drives Mr Fang to stand up and shake his hands in the wet, stale Spandau prison air.

Three weeks later Mr Fang was arrested by the same agent, who had come with a group of AWWF members. According to Mr Fang, when he asked the agent why he was reneging on his words the agent said his words are nothing but currency to buy time. They needed time to build a special prison cell in Spandau prison, deep and hidden. By trusting the agent, Mr Fang had given them the time.

“What I really did was give them value to their words. I should have known they would come to me like they went to Louie. And now I rot like the yellow spinach. I don’t know what to do.”

Mr Fang’s shoulders then crumble like a tired mountain. Soon the walls in Spandau prison will follow.

Look for the last instalment tomorrow on Sebastian “RuWolf” Fang.

Friday, July 25, 2008

Interview pt.2

Relaxing for a moment, Sebastian “Ruwolf” Fang has returned to chewing his bitter, vile looking and vile smelling spinach and bean roll between his granite facial features. In his crystal blue eyes are resentment and fear. Twisted thoughts might be spinning in his thick head but the werewolf leader has returned to his more human demeanour, if that is what it might be called.

“It isn’t what it might be called. It is what it needs to be called. I am human right now and if the desire by me scares anyone they should realise that I am stuck in some unknown level of Spandau prison awaiting my death,” said Mr Fang, resigned to his fate.

Mr Fang has lived in Spandau prison for the past year and with the death of former Nazi leader, Rudolf Hess, he fears he will never see the outside again after they tear down these prison walls.

Mr Fang waves his had dismissively at discussion on the Nazi matter. “The man is always complaining, but he is not the one who should be complaining.”

Spandau prison was home of the Nazi Seven, Hess, Walther Funk, Erich Raeder, Albert Speer, Baldur von Schirach, Konstantin von Neurath and Karl Donitz. Spandau prison is now home to the Nazi one – Hess. The rest have either been released for health or finishing their terms. This offends Mr Fang more than anything.

“I am stuck in here like I am Nazi. I hate the Nazis. I hated them when I was a young man and I hate them now as an elderly man,” said an angry Mr Fang.

Mr Fang never joined the German Third Reich army during the Second World War because of moral difficulties with the Nazi way. That makes sense if you are a werewolf who finds eating humans wrong. He hid himself from the SA, SS and Gestapo and never shot a single bullet. So why join the werewolf nation? Why come out of hiding?

“I had friends who had been hunted and killed for simply being a werewolf. It didn’t matter if they ate humans or not,” with this Mr Fang makes a slicing gesture against his throat, “they were slit with silver machetes, hung by silver chains and tortured or burned while they slept. I could not stand by and let this go on. When Marshall Lewis asked me to join the group it was a difficult but necessary decision. How many more needed to die? None.

“They needed to change. By joining I could get this group of animals…” Mr Fang begins a short but strong howl “…to be something more; to be a group of hope rather than of devastation. It was the way I thought we could make humans understand that we belong to this blue globe just as much as they do.”

Travelling with the group brought many nights of drinking and rocking but he never again ate flesh. Mr Fang always found his own place to be on full moons and hunted mammals just like he did before joining the group. Soon others joined him, curious why he did not eat humans, and found that he might be on to something.

“At this time… I think it was ’79… Louie (Marshall Lewis) had been hunted and killed by this new group called the Anti-Werewolf Forces – hung him by his neck on a silver collar. The two of us never did see eye-to-eye on the eating mammals-thing. He thought we were creatures of savagery, that there was nothing wrong with that and we needed to eat humans to claim our dominance. To say I disagreed with that well… we had our battles. But he respected me. And I worshiped him.

“After his death was confirmed, we were without a leader and I had no desire to be that guy, you know. He was a leader in every sense of the word. When he breathed the multitudes breathed. Me, I was just trying to be myself within the group. What I didn’t consider in 1980, when we were still leaderless, was that without a man on top the group could not function. Me heading out to the Black Forest, to hide and dismiss my instinct, apparently sent a message to the multitudes.

“Werewolves began following me to the shadows of the Black Forest, where we ate rabbit or elk and we would have discussions in German and English and then French and then Chinese and then well, I’ve lost count of the languages spoken in the shadows. But we spoke. We spoke about unity and peace and loving us and loving humans. It isn’t hippy stuff; it is just a way of moving beyond the stereotype.”

Moving werewolves is the easy part of Mr Fang’s conversation here in Spandau prison. Moving words about Marshall Lewis is more difficult. He is troubled by his former leader’s death and their ideological arguments. When he speaks of Mr Lewis, his voice becomes listless and tired, as if the words had been shared too many times. But he speaks of his former leader like he was still alive, like he was here in the deep darkness of Spandau – like they were still travelling the European roads.

They are in Prague rolling in the grass, after a long moon chase. They are in Pere Lachaise graveyard in Paris peeing on Jim Morrison’s grave and writing on Oscar Wilde’s grave: “Sun is the curse of the Werewolf class.” Then they are in London with the three werewolf women and some more rolling. They are in a time…

“There wasn’t enough time. They found him in our room and dragged him to some park in Bethnal Green in East London and hung him like a piece of ham. They knew we were in London and knew it was raining and cloudy. That’s why the original werewolf nation left England. Not enough clear skies to rely on. So when the originals came back, sure enough we had no idea what awaited them. The AWWF is a piece of crap. They found him alone in a weakened human state in our hotel room and they took him away.

“He is a good… well call him what you like… Louie is good. He is the reason I am living. It isn’t any use…”

Tears fall over rocky cheeks and careen off cliffy chins. And so he returns to the comfort of that revolting spinach and bean roll, sad as he may be.

Look for Tomorrow’s Sebastian “RuWolf” Fang instalment.

Thursday, July 24, 2008

The Interview pt.1

The oppressive heat of the morning sun stifles my skin as I walk in to Spandau prison for an important meeting. Given the evident yellow globe willing its heat on me, it is strange that my mind is fixed on what the sky looks like when that yellow globe disappears.

Every once in a while in Spandau prison you can see the stars appear on the navy blue sky. Though they are light years away, you can see them blink and shimmer with dim light behind iron bars. It might not be the best way a person can see them, but they are the only way to see them from the inside.

Beside the jewels of the cosmos lays the bright, unrelenting shine of the pale moon. On a clear night it dominates the navy blue sky. It’s eye catching. It can create passion in our souls. It can drive something inside us to great or horrific things. A scary thought. Well, that’s what should scare any of us.

That’s definitely what scares guards in Spandau prison.

Locked in deep – way down – in the depths of the notorious Nazi prison in , these guards from three corners of the world spend many shades of moon with Sebastian “RuWolf” Fang, leader of the Werewolf Nation an honest, fang baring, furry 6-foot-2 werewolf.

There is supposed to be little to fear. Mr Fang is hidden from the navy blue sky, from the dim stars and more importantly, from the pale moon. Yet no one feels right. Everything is tense.

What Mr Fang does see is the pillar-like faces of the Soviet, American and British guards through a sliding window in the iron door that locks him in.

Inside the room, Mr Fang is surrounded by books that rise to the concrete ceiling. There must be at least 500 on subjects as varied as pornography and geography. And it doesn’t faze him a bit. Shocking to some, he would much rather read then eat.

“It’s assumed that I like to eat humans,” said Mr Fang in his thick Bavarian accent. “Books are my diet, words on my plate and nourishment for my mind.”

It’s as if Mr Fang is reciting his old schoolboy mantra, fitting since he is sitting on a small bed, fit for a ten-year-old boy but not a 66-year-old grown man… wolf… wolf-man… in Spandau prison, notorious Nazi hellhole, hard as a rock, deep as a black hole and a never-never land of regret.

“If I could say I had regret,” said Mr Fang between bites of his spinach and bean roll that smelled like sewage-waste, “it would have to be that I tried to educate the public too late in the game.

“That was my problem. I did not at first wish to be a leader of anything. I wanted to be a simple train engineer, working the Bavarian train lines from Fussen to Munich to Stuttgart. But what are you going to do, huh? Leave the world to determine your own fate.”

Mr Fang’s fate was sealed the night he met a travelling group of English werewolves, named the werewolf nation. The Werewolf Nation was an unorganised troupe of rebellious werewolves who travelled throughout Europe partying, meeting other werewolves and eating – a lot. According to Mr Fang, under a typical full moon he had transformed that night and was hunting as he always claims he did in a Bavarian forest looking for mammals rather than humans to eat.

“I was born this way,” said Mr Fang of his chosen non-human eating path. “I am the seventh child of a catholic family that loved and raised me to be a great man. They reminded me that although I have a beast side, I have a human side, too. I was raised with my… ‘skill-set’ to respect the pure human race. But my parents never allowed me to feel isolated because of my ‘skill-set’, even in a Germany that was very intolerant. To forget their wishes would be kin to biting in to my parents. What else could I do? I love them and they love me.”

Once Mr Fang came to an understanding that the beasts were not going to hurt him, he showed them around the forest, giving them the locations of good animal hunting grounds and transformation spots they might like to use. But the werewolf nation would have nothing to do with his advice.

“At first I thought they were regular wolves, because they were so short. But when I saw their eyes I knew it. I knew it like my birthday. They were werewolves like me but they spoke English, which at that time I did not.”

They looked upon Mr Fang as a future member but not as a guide to the werewolf hunting grounds of the Black Forest. For that they had no use.

“Marshall Lewis (of Wolverhampton, UK, then leader of werewolf nation, now martyr of Werewolf Nation) looked at me and he gave me a sick, lusty grin that said without words – remember I could not speak English at the time – that what they wanted dwelled not under the cover of branches and grass but under places of brick and tiles. I had made a choice like that character Louis from Interview with a Vampire to hunt only mammals as I felt at the time – as I would today – that our place in the world was to remain hidden. It’s not like I was comfortable being a werewolf; I couldn’t exactly tell my co-engineers that they were riding with a beast.

“Well I was pretty much in the same position with these guys, you know, I couldn’t exactly tell them that I didn’t eat humans. I was outnumbered 8-to-1. You better damn well believe at that moment I ate humans. Plus there were a few issues that needed to be dealt with in town, so I said: ‘Gehen Wir’ and then we tore apart thirty poor souls. It was the last time I ever ate human flesh… Yes, it was delicious the best tasting meat on earth, but…”

At this point Mr Fang gets a very eager look on his face.

Look for what happens next on tomorrow’s report by me on Sebastian “RuWolf” Fang’s last days in Spandau Prison.

An importance

So now we get the point of why we landed here in the first place. The month of a werewolf is a one day affair. His lycanthropy (and who is not getting tired of this elongated, outmoded word)owing to full moons, he is mostly a human rather than a beast.

Compare the local werewolf to your mint comic. The Hulk can roid-rage at any moment but you would think that was a rather blase affair. A man chooses every night to put a bat costume on and you think: "what a tortured hero." But a werewolf transforms once a month from a man to beast and you go, "how horrifying." But it lasts so briefly and his victims so minute that he is just as understandable as the comic book hero. There are things he MUST do but he is still a man.

That's why I think it is time to release the banned Sebastian "RuWolf" Fang story today on the Theater of Technicolor Dreams. It was banned by my former editor at the Daily Snore...er, I mean Roar, but I will not hold it back any further.

I, Robert Hacker, jr am not a werewolf apologist. But why leave such a important four-part-story sitting on my computer files when it is obvious with latest misdirected talk on werewolves filling our media files.

Read my stories and let me know that you give a damn.

Hack-Man OUT!

Wednesday, July 23, 2008

THE MOON/ MILLENIUM SETS ON WERWOLVES

By Robert Hacker, jr.
News Desk, 2000
Where have they gone? The full moons enter our skies monthly and nay a howl is heard from the Black Forest to the streets of Black Mountain. Where have they gone?

It has been years since anyone has seen a werewolf anywhere and if they are all dead then questions must be asked as to why we are still funding the Anti-Werewolf Forces and why they are needed. The AWWF has claimed that the numbers of werewolves on Earth are still very high and that we should remain vigilant whenever we are out of the security of our homes.

“We are still seeing a surge in certain areas of the globe where werewolves not only exist but are increasing in numbers,” said an anonymous source from AWWF.

Questions have been raised towards the AWWF’s policy of unnamed sources but AWWF officials remain unapologetic about their lack of transparency, years after being formed as an unknown group in the late ‘70s.

“We must protect our agents around the world by not giving their names away in news services or speaking about what they are doing in missions. We would put them in harms way if we did that,” said the source. So, the lack of transparency continues until further notice.

Meanwhile, the AWWF are conducting warrantless searches of homes in North America – especially in the Pacific Northwest, where 3,000 homes have been investigated over the past year for housing an illegal being – in the name of finishing off the werewolf population. Some homes have been found to hold Humans or Werewolves Lives (HOWL) propaganda and the inhabitants have been arrested on the spot.

“We are in the final days of this threat but they are still out there,” said Wyoming R. Rep. Thurgood Mansfield. “

According to Princeton lycanthropy research professor Desmond Lyons, PhD, there is little empirical evidence of werewolf existence. Prof Lyons claims the world is under severe threat of werewolf-phobia-behaviour (WPB), a disease he believes that inflicts humans when they fear what is unknown. He said that this was no more than another example of the “Little Albert experiment,” the John B. Watson experiment in the 1920s when he instilled fear in an infant by associating scary noises with a white rat.

“Right now,” said Prof Lyons, “the AWWF is doping us in to nothing more than the sounding of that gong.”

On the street, through anecdotal evidence, there is still much fear. People in North America have been claiming they stay inside on full moon evenings and keep their cooking to strict vegetarian meals on these nights.

“I don’t even look out my window on those nights,” said Shauna Mercy, a nurse at Nebraska University in Omaha. “I’m not going to let them hurt my kids or convert them in to dogs. That ain’t American. That ain’t right.”

In Canada, Marian Fourchet a dock worker in Montreal said he saw nothing wrong with being afraid of werewolves.

“It’s not like it’s unmanly to be scared of them,” said Fourchet. “We have to support our countries in times like this. If people like RuWolf (Sebastian Fang) were allowed to roam the streets and harm us then nothing would work. I wouldn’t work. I would sit in my home and cry and what good what that be? Our boys are fighting, we need to help them by doing as they say.”

The Further Adventures of Val Williams # 1 - Bad Moon Rising pt. III

Little pockets of paranoia like mini twisters whip their way around the city in all directions. It’ll be hard to get a bead on what’s real and what isn’t. So far, two groups of street kids have led me on false alarms, getting too aggressive, spreading panic. I think they’re in on it. A little wisp of paranoia dances around me now. When you’ve been where I’ve been you dread full moons.

Over at Beekman’s Diner I get the usual, black coffee and a hard boiled egg with ample table salt for both. The Wizard says it’s no good for my ulcers, but what am I supposed to do?

In walks Carl Abbott with a folder under his arm, hotshot, fed. He’s with the Paranormal Research Division, we met a while back, kept bumping into each other. We’ve formed a mutual - grudging - appreciation society. He keeps his bosses in the dark about what I do, it turns out we have a similar objective: scan and sweep, then keep quiet. Anyway, it means less paperwork for him by not mentioning me or my results.

“Take a look at this,” he says, tossing the folder across the table.

I open it up. The first thing I see is a black and white satellite image map of the city with four red circles.

“The four attacks,” he says, “now watch this.”

He pulls a ruler out of his inside jacket pocket and starts connecting the dots.

It’s a pentagram with the lowermost point missing.

“There’s your next attack,” he says, leaning back, throwing an arm around the back of the chair, smug asshole.

“The heights,” I say, “great. The constant muggings and shootings are going to be a real pain in the ass. It’s going to be hard to pick out a demonic attack. Can you give me an exact location?”

“Right on the corner of Zero Ave and Kildare.”

I nod, flaking off the last bit of eggshell from my hard boiled egg.

“Come on,” he says, getting up out of his chair.

“Slow down,” I say, with a mouthful of egg. “We ain’t going nowhere. I’m going up to Zero Ave, you’re going here.” My finger lands in the center of the pentagram, on the map.

“Victory square,” he says.

“If I can’t stop this thing, you’re gonna have to be there to deal with the aftermath.”

He sits back down and runs his fingertips over his bottom lip.

“It’ll be hell on earth,” I say finishing the egg, “are you up to it?”

***

“He’s freaking out here, man!” Padraic was getting a little freaked out, too.

“Hold him down,” Dagda said, “don’t let go.”

Little Gary was convulsing and foaming at the mouth. He had ever since the sun went down. He was becoming feral. His strength and rage had swelled like the tides under the influence of the moon and the piece of it that hung around his neck.

“Okay,” Dagda said, “get him in the cage.”

“Don’t hurt him,” Boann piped up.

Dagda stared deep into the eyes of his two comrades, “we’ve got work to do.”

To be continued...

Tuesday, July 22, 2008

DUAL SUICIDE IN SPANDAU PRISON ten years ago

By Robert Hacker, jr.
December 1997
News Desk archives (1987)
Rudolf Hess is dead. So is Sebastian Fang. Both men were found hanging from two ropes in Spandau prison, in separate cells, in separate circumstances, meeting their ends hours apart.

Mr Hess is Adolf Hitler’s former deputy and has been serving a lifetime sentence for crimes against peace and conspiracy. He was found hanging by an electrical chord in his summer house in an undisclosed location of Spandau prison.

Mr Fang is the leader of Werewolf Nation and was sentenced to an unlimited prison term for inciting lycanthropy. He has committed suicide in the depths of Spandau prison by a silver chain.

Spandau prison officials from the Four Powers (US, Soviet Union, France and the UK) have commented saying: “we are investigating exactly how both men died. At this time we are giving their families time to grieve and our agents more time to recover any clues from the death scenes until we comment further.”

Rudolf Hess was 93. Sebastian “RuWolf” Fang was 66.

LYNCH THE LYNCANTHROPISTS

You can’t even get a coffee at night without peaking over your shoulder. What kind of a world do we live in? One filled with werewolves. And that is not acceptable.

You pay your taxes. You go to work. You raise a family. That life should not be under the threat of the werewolf virus that we must defend from. Organizations like Humans or Werewolf Lives (HOWL) only operate to cause evil in this world. If they really wanted to bring conciliation to our world they would consider their own necks and not those of werewolves. As stated by Joseph Veriticus, we are threatened by werewolves who operate under strict ideology that does not pass on this planet.

Werewolves believe that their role on earth is to keep the human population down by devouring us so that the rest of the world might live more peacefully. That is a load of baloney. If it weren’t for humans the black plague would still be infecting scores of species, not just human. If it weren’t for humans, species would not have returned to their native lands after being re-introduced by us. No, it’s not us who are the threat.

If there were no humans on earth, then the werewolves would simply move on the next species. Through our investigations, we have come across many mutilated rabbits, cats, birds and donkeys. Yes, donkeys. Man’s third best friend.

However, it is not their fangs that you must fear most. It is their words. Do not believe the words that HOWL and Werewolf Nation wish you to believe. They are lies. You are under threat and we can help.

Because of the stronger anti-werewolf laws that have been passed we are liberalized. Because of the Anti-Werewolf Forces, our liberties are protected.

New Anti-Werewolf Law passes

February 13, 1996
By Robert Hacker, jr.

Yesterday werewolves were under threat only if they were caught transforming and attacking, or propagating their culture. Today they will be hunted no matter their behaviour.

The US Congress, British Parliament, Russian Congress, Chinese Politburo and Canadian House of Commons have passed new bills making being a werewolf completely illegal. The punishment is now corporal punishment on the spot.

“What has happened here today is the world governance showing real leadership under threat,” said Wyoming rep. Thurgood Mansfield. “We have dealt with the werewolf threat in strong, uncompromising terms: you are not welcome on our planet. I feel blessed to be not only an American, but a human too.”

Canadian Prime Minister Orland Lobos used slightly more toned-down words after Bill C-666 was passed. “We can think of a bright future now, all though it is a shame it has come to this.”

The new powers gives the Anti-Werewolf Forces all the authority they need to kill off the werewolf species.

“This is a message to the werewolves who darken our bright world,” said a source speaking on condition of anonymity because of ongoing investigations. “We will shine the light.”

Sunday, July 20, 2008

Discussion in the Woods

by Lucas Klaukien

She came up on them, two of them, in the woods, at night, hunched over a two-legger child. They dug into his torso with their teeth, tearing lumpy strings of flesh. They stopped when they heard her approach.

“Won’t you join us sister,” one of them said.

“We would be honored if you did,” the other said.

She was sure to keep her distance as she replied, “but I am not your sister, and you are not my packmates.”

“But tonight,” one of them said, “we are like you.”

“Tonight, we know,” the other said, “we know the ways of the wolf.”

“But for the rest of the month,” she said, thoughtfully, “when the mother goddess is not fully pregnant, you walk on two legs and worship the fearsome Sun God.”

“Are we to be denied your favor because we walk on two legs and worship the sun?”

“We were born this way, we cannot help our two-leggedness.”

“Forgive me the denial of my favor, as it cannot be given. To walk on four legs and be close to the earth is essential to true spiritual enlightenment for the true creatures of the forest.”

The two looked at each other and began to growl and talk in low halting gibberish two-legger-speak.

“Surely,” one of them said, “to walk on two legs can only be seen as an advantage. Two-leggers have a better vantage point in the obscure forest.”

“Yes,” the other said, “it is essential to survival.”

“But we have no need for better sight. Wolf sight is good enough. In the forest, we have only one enemy … two-leggers, who hunt not with speed or teeth or claws. They hunt by throwing rocks, and surely lower ground is better for the wolf, even in that regard.”

“Of course, you are right,” on of them said, “men do hunt wolves.”

The two of them rose up on two legs, their heads and hearts away from the sacred earth. She heard an unnatural clicking noise as she saw them cock a shiny long metal stick. She did not turn to run away. She knew from experience that two-leggers could throw a rock faster than she could run. She braced herself for attack, crouching low, drawing strength from the earth, preparing to leap. Even then, she knew her spirit would soon fill the belly of the mother goddess where all brave wolves go when the hunt is ended…

Meet Joe Werewolf

report by Robert Hacker, jr.

Joseph Veriticus is a werewolf. He knows it and you need to know it too. Because, as he warns, if the world doesn’t begin to believe they exist, they soon won’t. And that will have dire consequences for the world’s eco-system.

As new Anti-Werewolf legislation is being considered by most western nations around the world – and the possibility werewolf population decrease – the 32-year-old half-man, half-beast has ignored warnings by Werewolf Nation, coming out of the shadows to warn humanity of what might come.

Veriticus believes that the world needs werewolves to ensure that Mother Nature’s balance is kept in tact. As the head of the food chain, werewolves keep their prey from running amok on the earth’s surface. Of course their favourite prey is human. Keeping our numbers down, so that the rest of the world might enjoy the planet’s gifts is what werewolves are about.

“You can’t put a value on how many lives – animal lives – we have saved by eating humans,” said Verticus as he munched on a rare t-bone steak at The Porterhouse Grill. “Humans could become more than a nuisance if they aren’t kept in check. Because of their nature – their beastly desire to control – they pose a significant risk to the world.”

Representatives for the Anti-Werewolf Forces, a global unit set up to fight werewolf activity world-wide, commented solely on condition of anonymity because of ongoing investigations, including some on Veriticus. According to the source, werewolves have begun an eco campaign in efforts to stifle human drive to wipe them out.

“Their whole game is to keep citizens confused, to subvert what we do here in the AWWF and destroy our way of life.

“But we’ll sort them out… one silver bullet at a time.”

Veriticus warns that such action will lead to an end of the planets resources because humans cannot help themselves. As a worker for the Agricultural Land Reserve, Veriticus says he has seen what our way of life is and it distresses him immensely.

“Un-checked, un-eaten, the human will kill off our planet. And it is ours, too.”

Friday, July 18, 2008

The Further Adventures of Val Williams # 1 - Bad Moon Rising pt. II

Boann sat on the sidewalk, combing her hands through Little Gary’s hair. He was a strong new weapon in their arsenal. No one would pass by a mother and her child without throwing change, and, in the right parts of the city, no one would stop to ask too many questions either.

Dagda and Boann found Little Gary on the corner of the street, staring into the window of a McDonald’s. For over ten minutes, he stared dewy eyed and no adult claimed him. He was lost.

When they grabbed him he wouldn’t stop staring at Dagda’s trench coat, something about it made him think a million baby spiders would rush out of there the minute a strong gust of wind would flap it open.

Around Little Gary's neck was a rock attached to a string, Boann had a sickening impulse to snatch it from him, she didn’t know why.

“What’s that around your neck, Little Gary,” Boann asked him, crouching down to his eye level.

“I’m not supposed to talk about it,” Little Gary said, intense. There was a strength in the boy. “My dad gave it to me, and he told me to hide it.”

“Where is he,” she asked.

“The men in white coats took him away,” he said.

Boann and Dagda exchanged weary glances.

“Where’s your Mom,” Dagda asked.

Little Gary shrugged, “at home, I guess.”

“Well, why don’t we give her a call and take you home,” Boann offered.

“No,” Little Gary shouted and turned to run.

Padraic triumphantly rounded the corner with a couple McDonald’s bags in his hands, sipping a drink.

“Padraic,” Dagda shouted, and pointed to the boy, running in his direction.

Padraic caught the boy across the chest with his right arm and reeled him in, dropping his drink in the process.

He made his way over to his friends with the boy, held up the bags and said, “someone left, like, half a burger. Who’s the kid?”

“I don’t know,” Dagda said, “but he’s got a moon rock around his neck.”

***

I don’t want you to think it’s grimmer than it is, but it’s darker than you think. When people start to believe in the existence of werewolves, vampires, ghouls and aliens or anything else that lives under their beds it opens the gates of hell. The guy who had my job in the 17th century had his hands full keeping the world in one piece. We’ve only just got things back to relatively normal. But I got my work cut out for me tonight.

There’s no brick in the park, no magnetic stone, nothing. Damn. Brick acts like a spiritual tape recorder. It’s gonna be harder to pick up any residual energy from those wolf forms, if they even exist, or that character in the trench coat. Most of it’s probably dissipated back into ether by now. Then again, maybe it’s not so bad, tonight I‘m watching over the city and the sun’s about to go down…

Stay tuned for part 3…

Werewolf calendar -- 14 Years Ago Today

July 18, 1994
More than 200 werewolves were taken in to custody in Germany and Luxembourg as they observed the seventh anniversary of the death of Sebastian "Ruwolf" Fang. Fang hanged himself on a silver chain in Spandau Prison in 1987 hours after Adolf Hitler's right-hand-man Rudolf Hess was found hanging by electrical chord. Mr Fang died at the tender age of 66.
-report by Robert Hacker, jr.

Thursday, July 17, 2008

WEREWOLF ATTACKS IN THE UNITED STATES BY TARGET, BETWEEN 1990 AND 1995

Residences………………………………………………. 1
Private Residence……………………………………….. 1
Apartment House ……………………………………….. 0
Other Private Property ………………………………….. 0

Public Safety ………………………………………….. 1
Law Enforcement …………………………………….. 0
Building ……………………………………………….. 0
Vehicle ………………………………………………… 0
Fire Department and Equipment ……………………… 1

Persons …………………………………………………...3
Total: 5

Fear of wolves in the 'Couv

An elderly man claimed to be the latest victim of werewolf activity on Vancouver streets last night. According to police sources, he was attacked on the No. 10 bus heading home last night.
The attack took place at approximately 10:30 pm. There had been a full moon in the sky. Jay Swallow said he was making his way home as he always does on the Granville St. bus last night when he witnessed a man becoming agitated as he stared at the moon sitting on a bus seat.
Swallow, a retired police officer from Marpole, claims the agitated man transformed in to a werewolf and attacked teens sitting at the back of the bus. He claims that when the werewolf had finished devouring the teens, he turned his attention to Swallow.
“I just made room for him. He was behaving oddly but not so oddly for that bus route. I thought he was just another drunk that might have gone too far on the bus, probably was meant to get off on Hastings and Granville. We get that a lot. However, when fur started popping out of his flannel shirt, I knew we were for something far more dangerous.”
According to Swallow, the werewolf tried to take a bite out of him once he was done devouring the teens. But Swallow wears a silver bullet attached to his necklace, which he received from his time on the Vancouver Police Department. That was enough to scare the werewolf off the bus. Swallow could not say what direction the werewolf ran.
Officials with BC Transit would not comment on the story. Anti-Werewolf Forces said the matter was under investigation.

Wednesday, July 16, 2008

REALITY CHECK FOR HUMANS in'86

By Ruwolf Fang

For better or worse the world is not under threat of werewolves.

The world is troubled, not by any dogs or monsters but by the ineptitude of our so-called leaders who claim to know what they are doing and what we should be doing. This whole suggestion that the world should fear the werewolf threat is unfounded and if you consider that you are far more likely to be caught on the grips of gridlock horror than the fang-based terror, you will certainly see that werewolves just do not exist. If they did, then why haven’t you seen one? Where is the proof that they exit?

US President Ronald Regan claims the numbers prove the need for the Anti-Werewolf Forces. The stats don't bare this fact. It appears it is more convenient for the world’s governments to create bogeymen that hide from the light, which might attack us at any moment under the “right conditions”, then to deal with the real issues of our society that they themselves have pushed in to the shadows. We have a chronic homeless problem. Drugs have flooded our streets, carried on the ocean surface by the dark currents of criminality. Police abuse is on the rise. Society is indeed under attack. What have our leaders done to answer these issues? I can’t say. Neither can most of you.

Celebrating the end of lycanthropy might seem like a fine idea but for the $1.5 million we spent this year on the AWWF we might have built new homes for the poor or given free drug counselling for the addicted. The government could have made answers for real problems. Yet here we are listening to the US President claiming victories in fictitious battles with bogeymen.

“Werewolves” are not the issue. Bad policy is far more terrifying.

The Further Adventures of Val Williams # 1 - Bad Moon Rising pt. I

by Lucas Klaukien

I wake up when some kids ride by, afternoon time. My mouth is the Sahara desert. I smoked too much last night. This is life in the Church of the Holy Trinity. Dusty quiet, till some kids ride by. I’m mired in the kind of quiet that’s either easily tuned out or all-encompassing, depending on what kind of person you are. Worst case scenario, you could panic and drown in a quiet like this. Until some kids ride by to spoil the fun.

The Church was condemned years or even decades ago, left to rot in a long-forgotten corner on the outskirts of town. Generations of vandals have gotten in, pissing and partying, breaking beer bottles, marking territory. Palm smeared, nicotine stained walls, effluvia spattered floors and smoke dried ceiling, four graffiti sprayed walls and a leaky ceiling, the Church is my home.

***

“BAD MOON RISING?” on the front page of the newspaper. “Questions surround lunar mission.” Read on:

“Cape Canaveral, FL - Last week’s long-awaited lunar mission appeared to have been a complete success until the behavior of one crewmember had friends and loved-ones ‘shaking in [their] boots.’ Dr. Mark Taylor’s state upon returning to his family was reported to be one of ‘extreme agitation and anti-social tendencies.’ Dr. Taylor has been taken back to Kennedy Space Center for observation. NASA scientists are baffled as to the cause of the strange behavior. “He’s one of our top guys,” said Mission Captain Jamil Khaddafy… [cont. on page 3]”

Another story on the page read:

“JOGGER ATTACKED - Fourth in a string of recent attacks.
A fourth victim came forward claming in to have been attacked, this time at Quist Memorial Park at around 9 O’clock last night. Police spokeswoman Jane Dwyer was not available for comment at the time of writing… [cont. on page 5]”

I’m the only person on the face of the earth stupid enough to believe the two stories are connected.

The attacks have made the city stiff with tension. I’ve bumped and hiccupped my way through tenser spots than this, but it’s giving me a headache.

Strange words are being brandished by those in the media who know how to use them: werewolf, vampire, ghoul. Always used as adjectives, never as nouns, but still carefully done to arouse fear and worry and anger. I’m not here to sniff out a werewolf or a vampire in the fold, my job is to certify that such creatures don’t exist, by blasting them away and leaving no trace.

In the 17th century werewolf paranoia was tre chic. You’d wake up the day after a full moon with a few less neighbors. Consider me insurance against that happening again.

At Quist Park I get a feeling. The woman who was attacked the night before actually believed she was going to die, eaten alive by werewolves. In the residue of her mind I see four shapes like razor blades dancing around her at speed, snapping and showing teeth, and a mysterious man in a trench coat who appears to be their master. The Maestro. This is no good. They’ve done their job, they’ve done a number, the newspaper publishers. This woman isn’t supposed to believe in werewolves. No one is supposed to believe.

To Be Continued …

Psycho Babel

For every wolf within me, the surprising strength of the spirits rips my cares, tears my guilt, and worries my life away. All the people I've known, I've made a meal of every one. But it ain't me, it's the wolves within, howling, putting up a fight. Wild, resistant wolves, beasts, demons all. You want to know the truth, the moon brings it out of me, blame the moon. Every time something good's going on, the wolves take it. My lady, my job, they are rabbits. Don't blame me, you'll never see a rabbit dangling from my mouth, it's the wolves I tell you, the wolves they take it.

Tuesday, July 15, 2008

Numbers speak more than words

By Robert Hacker, jr


The Anti-Werewolf Force has been heralded by US President Ronald Regan as having prevented more deaths than any other policing agency in North America based on numbers released today by the AWWF office.

“These brave men and women are fighting the good fight against what can only be described as a test of our resolve,” said President Regan.

“And not only are they fighting the fight bravely, they are winning based on the numbers. Remember kids, say no to drugs”

Questions over the past few months have centred on whether or not there truly is a werewolf threat. AWWF agents scoffed at the suggestion, saying that the world is certainly under many threats and werewolves were one of the most dangerous. One agent, who wished to remain anonymous, said: “You won’t see them everyday. That’s how these half-men, half-dogs operate. They don’t want to be seen. They hide in the shadows of society and wait for their opportunity to dine on our relaxed nature – on our forgiveness. There will be no forgiveness. Those who look to destroy our way of life can be sure that they way will meet their end.”

No werewolves could be reached for reaction.

Werewolf stats by Robert Hacker, jr.

WEREWOLF ATTACKS IN THE UNITED STATES BY TARGET, BETWEEN 1980 AND 1985

Residences: 1

Private Residence: 1

Apartment House : 0

Other Private Property: 0

Public Safety : 1

Law Enforcement: 0

Building: 0

Vehicle : 0

Fire Department and Equipment: 1

Persons: 3

Total: 5

Sunday, July 13, 2008

Astronauts driven by new sensation, wanted more moon

by Robert Hacker, jr. News Desk

Strange.

That’s how astronauts responded to questions about how they felt when leaving the moon for the last time before they returned to the space shuttle that would bring them back to earth.

Astronaut and Captain Jamil Khaddafy said that the sensation rolling through their nerves was something they had never felt before, something they felt grow stronger as they looked on the moon.

“I can’t really say what it is, to be honest,” said Khaddafy. “However, I do believe the sensation phenomenon we felt was not earthly.”

The mission to the moon was an attempt to discover the metallic nature of the inner crust of moon’s core. The research was meant to keep up the path to discovery of the moon’s origin and maybe even earth’s. However, all the astronauts could talk about was they strange emotion they sensed as they left the moon’s surface.

“I felt a strong urge to return and stay,” said Lt. Farah Sampson. “I don’t know if that was wishful thinking on my part because I had such a wonderful time or if it was something more. All I know is that since then, I am having a hard time ignoring that white plate on the sky table.”

Reports from anonymous sources claimed that one astronaut, Lt. Jimmy Jones-Marshall, had to be restrained on the return voyage to earth because of lunatic ramblings that the crew had brought too much back. NASA representatives claimed that that was true and that there had been some speculation that Jones-Marshall was a touch jealous of being the only member of the six-man crew not to reach the moon’s surface.

“I think Jonesy was howling about a lot of things on the trip,” said Capt. Khaddafy. “But we were able to put a bite in to his complaints and sedate him for the trip home. It is quite normal.”

The crew is scheduled give a full debriefing in two days at NASA headquarters.

Werewolves up the ante

In 1985, 30 werewolves made their way to France for what is believed to be a week-long party of flesh and fur. Three were killed in anti-werewolf actions, making the likelihood of a werewolf tourist in France becoming a fatality when travelling to the country 1/10 or 0.10.

In response to the greater threats on their lives, werewolves stepped up what has been termed “terrorizing” activity by anti-werewolf forces, or AWWF, by inserting a wolf-skin belt into travellers’ carry-on luggage, who believe to be receiving a wonderful gift. In reality they are normally are nothing more than pawns in this covert war. On April 17, 1986 an Irish woman at Heathrow airport was found to be carrying one of these devices in her purse as she was about to board an E1 A1 747 plane headed for France. Heathrow’s x-ray and luggage inspection, not made to detect such devices, clearly did not detect it, but a AWWF agent noted that the purse seemed heavier than normal and a false bottom was found containing the device which was seemingly timed to work once the plane had reached air. Al McGrew was arrested by AWWF two days later in a castle just outside of Cork in connection with the werewolf crime.

People are asked to remain vigilant when traveling and to check their luggage before, during and even after their trip to the airport.

“This is not acceptable and I fear that the war is about to get a little more serious in the coming months,” said the agent. “We must have vigilance. Or they will have vengeance!”

Wednesday, July 9, 2008

Werewolf article from HowStuffWorks...

I stumbled across this page late one night...

http://science.howstuffworks.com/werewolf.htm

Leash and Liege

By Lucas Klaukien

Shelley howled in pain as her bone structure warped, bones twisting, popping and cracking. The fur, the paws, the snout collapsed and grew, the eyes, the legs, the chest changed, revealing a beautiful, healthy and quite naked, young woman.

“Master,” she said, “we can be together now. I‘ve always slept on your bed, now I can sleep in it.”

Landon quietly said, “no,” and “Shelley.”

“Shelley…”

She was a beautiful dog, a German Shepherd with an off-colored eye, faithful as the morning sunrise. She was nursing a nasty bite of some kind. He hadn’t seen what bit her. He heard her yelps out in the woods and ran to find her with his rifle by his side. This far north, in such an isolated setting, there was no telling what she might have ran into. He found her limping and growling. He went to check the wound and she snapped at him. It was the only time she’d ever done that and he couldn’t restrain himself from belting her a good one across the chops.

She cocked her head sideways watching him sob gently. She went to comfort him.

“Get the fuck away from me,” he screamed, ashamed of her nakedness and how it stirred him.

“Master,” she said, confused, “my love. Will you beat me?”

“no.”

“Have I angered you?”

“No.”

“Maybe you’ll put the chain around my neck and we’ll go for a walk.”

“NO!”

The puffy, red, puss-infected bite mark was the only blotch on an otherwise perfect sheath of skin. It throbbed and ran yellow with puss every time she scratched it. She crouched down and tried scratching it with her foot, falling over on her side. She broke her fall with her arms, and as though touched by the genius of God, realized she could use her hands to scratch.

Landon tried desperately not to look. Oh God, just don’t look.

“I’m no sicko,” he said to himself, shaking his head, “I’m not sick. Shelley…” he began to cry, “Shelley, you’re beautiful … beautiful.”

He steeled himself and wiped the tears from his eyes, “I’m not sick, you’re the one that’s sick!”

He wept again and said quickly, nodding, “Yes, I’m sick. I am sick.”

He hadn’t been with a woman … he hadn’t seen very many women in the three years they’d been up there.

Shelley noticed the distinct bulge forming in his pants and crawled over on all fours to console her master, to hold him in her newly human arms.

Oh, how she’d waited for this moment! He was everything to her. Companion, provider, master.

He pounded his fist on the floor beside him as she brought her arms around his neck. Her perfect breasts dangled over, then pressed down gently against his chest. Their eyes met, his tear reddened eyes, her off-colored ones, for a second they fell in love.

He leaned in to kiss her and she licked his face. He threw her off and she thudded across the room. Picking herself up, she smiled.

“Lock me in a cage, put a chain around my neck. Let’s play rough, I want you to give me a beating.”

Landon grunted in frustration as he got up off the ground. She crawled back over to him and wrapped her arms around his leg, cradling the side of her face against his thigh and rubbing her vagina against the top of his foot. He stopped resisting for a moment, put his hands on his forehead and sighed, looking up at the ceiling.

When he looked back down, she was bent over in front of him on all fours.

“Master,” she said, “I know how lonely you’ve been. I haven’t smelled any women on you. Master …”

He started to hyperventilate, huh-huh-huh-huh-huh.

“… come in to me.”

He ran into his room and locked the door. huh-huh-huh-huh-huh.

He could hear her crawling along the floor, testing the door handle. She called to him. He grabbed the rifle off the wall above his bed.

huh-huh-huh-huh-huh.

What to do? He thought about jumping out the bedroom window. He thought about hiding in the closet. huh-huh-huh-huh-huh. He set the gun down and sat at the edge of his bed, frantic. He unzipped his pants and began to masturbate, wiping the tears from his eyes with his free hand. It didn’t take long to finish. huh-huh-huh-huh-huh.

He picked the rifle up and slowly made for the door, unlocked it, and slowly backed up to the edge of the bed where he had been. She came into the room, walking uneasily toward him. He raised the gun and squeezed the trigger, hitting her square above the right eye, she fell in a heap on the spot.

His ears rang.

“Master,” she said, picking herself up, “that was too rough.”

“Oh fuck, I should have used a silver bullet.”

Monday, July 7, 2008

W1 PART TWO

........................................THEN I SAW IT, MORE THAN A HALLUCINATION, MORE THAN PARANOIA,IT WAS CLEAR AS DAY,THE TO OF THEM KISSED BEFORE SHE GOT OUT OF THE CAR.I WAS SAYING TO MYSELF...JESUS I'M RIGHT HERE, HOW COULD SHE? AS SHE WALKED CLOSER I BEGAN TO PACE, KEEPING DIRECT EYE CONTACT,MY SKIN BEGAN TO HURT AND IT FELT LIKE MY BONES WHERE BEING CRUSHED INTERNALLY.EVERY STEP I COULD HEAR THE TWO OF THEM PANTING AND MOANING, I STOOD SILENT AND MOTIONLESS AS SHE REACHED THE TOP OF THE STEPS. AT THAT TIME DERRIK'S CAR PULLED AWAY, AND SANDRA CAME TO ME WITH A KISS ON THE LIPS, I COULD TASTE HIM. SHE SAID THAT DERRIK SAID "HI" I GRABBED HER RIGHT HAND AND FOR SOME REASON I PUT IT TO MY NOSE, I COULD SMELL HIM.THEN I SCREAMED IN HER FACE,"I CAN TASTE HIM IN MY MOUTH!", AND THEN I LOST CONTROL OF MY SELF, LIKE A BEAST HAD POSSESSED ME................I COULD ONLY WATCH IN TERROR. I WENT FOR THE THROAT LIKE AN ANIMAL AND JUMPED ON HER ,SHE WAS WINCING AND SCREAMING "STOP! PLEASE,I LOVE YOU" AND "WHY?", BUT I COULDN'T STOP, I WANTED TO, BUT I COULDN'T FIGHT IT NO MATTER HOW HARD I TRIED THE UNTAMED RAGE AND HUNGER. THE STRANGEST FEELING WAS THAT MY BODY AND SENSES WERE ACTUALLY ENJOYING THIS,IT FRIGHTENED ME TO THE PIT OF MY SOUL. I REMEMBER THAT I TRIED TO CRY OUT BUT DRAWL DRIPPED FROM MY LIPS AND A GROAN ESCAPED FROM MY CHEST.THEN I COULDN'T SEE, I HAVE NO MEMORY OF THE NEXT MINUTE OR SO , BUT I SUDDENLY LOST ALL MY STRENGTH MY BODY WENT LIMP OVER TOP OF HER AND FELT MY FACE BEGIN TO BURN LIKE SOMEONE WAS CUTTING MY FACE IN HALF WITH A CUTTING TORCH. THERE WAS BLOOD EVERY WHERE, ALL OVER ME. I LOOKED DOWN AND SAW HER THERE, HER THROAT WAS TORN TO PIECES, MY HEART SANK AND JAW DROPPED WITH DISBELIEF, AND SOME THING FELL FROM MY BLOODY MOUTH.IT WAS THE SILVER NECK LESS I GAVE HER FOR OUR ANNIVERSARY,THEN I VOMITED AND THE SILVER AND AMBER PENDENT THAT, HUNG FROM THE NECK LESS, HIT THE CONCRETE. IT WAS AT THAT MOMENT I UNDERSTOOD WHAT HAD HAPPENED, THE TASTE OF HER BLOOD IN MY MOUTH AND SINUSES, I CRIED FOR HELP AS LOUD AS I COULD, BUT BLOOD IN MY THROAT MADE MY VOICE GROGGILY AND INCOHERENT. I HELD HER CLOSE TO ME ROCKING HER LIMP BLOODY BODY BACK AND FORTH,REPEATING "I'M SORRY"AND "DON'T GO, I LOVE YOU", UNABLE TO BELIEVE WHAT I'D DONE. I TRUSTED HER MORE THEN ANYONE ,HOW COULD THIS BE? HOW COULD I HAVE DONE THIS? SHE WAS THE ONE THE ONLY THING THAT MATTERED TO ME,THE ONLY PERSON ON MY MIND AT ALL TIMES. THEN JUST BEFORE YOU AND THE AMBULANCE SHOWED UP, HER BODY TENSED UP . I LOOKED UP AT HER BLOODED BLUE FACE. SHE LOOKED RIGHT INTO MY EYES AND MOUTHED "I LOVE YOU", THEN HER EYES ROLLED BACK AND SHE WAS GONE........... . SHE'S GONE,SHE'S GONE AND I LOVED HER SO MUCH, HOW COULD THIS HAPPEN?
RECORDED 07/25/01 BY CONST. LYNN BENNET
CASE # 11115682
CHARGE: UNKNOWN (REFERRED TO RIVER VIEW PSYCHIATRIC
HOSPITAL FOR ANALYSIS)

W1

SIGNED CONFESSION
GIVEN BY PETER ASH
ON JULY 24TH 2001, I WAS WAITING FOR MY GIRLFRIEND, ONE SANDRA COTE, IN FRONT OF HER APARTMENT BUILDING AT 10:02 PM. SHE WAS OUT WITH A FRIEND, DERRIK SALVADOR,THEY HAD BEEN FRIENDS BEFORE WE GOT TOGETHER, AND I DIDN'T MUCH LIKE HIM. I WAS HAVING A CIGARETTE ,WONDERING WHERE SHE WAS, WHAT WAS TAKING SO LONG, SHE SAID THEY WERE GOING TO HAVE COFFEE, BUT SHE ALSO SAID SHE WOULD BE BACK BEFORE 10:00 PM, SO I BEGAN TO WORRY. THREE CIGARETTES LATER IT WAS 10:45 PM AND STILL NO SIGN AND I HAD NO PHONE TO CALL HER WITH, MY MIND STARTED TO WORK IT'S SELF INTO A FRENZY AND MY HEAD BEGAN TO HURT. I WAS AT FIRST TRANSFIXED ON THE NOTION THAT THERE WAS AN ACCIDENT OR A HOLD UP AT THE COFFEE SHOP. I WAS UNWILLINGLY IMAGINIG ,IN TERROR, THE FLIKERING LIGHTS OF A FIRE TRUCK OR AMBULANCE AT THE SCENE OF A HORRIBLE WREAKAGE AND HER LIFELESS BODY RESTING ON THE CONCREATE .MY STOMACH DROPED AND I ALMOST WET MY PANTS AS I SAT THERE TEARING UP. THEN OUT OF NO WHERE THE VISION OF SOME VICIOUS CRIMINALS RAPING HER AT GUN POINT, AT THAT VERY SECOND THAT ILL FEELING TURNED TO PURE RAGE, I STARTED TO BREATH HEAVILY AND EVERY MUSCLE IN MY BODY BECAME SO TENSE THAT I HAD TO STAND. AT THAT POINT 11:11 PM MS. COTE AND MR. SALVIDOR ARRIVE AT THE WEST GATE OF COTE'S APARTMENT.....................

Wednesday, July 2, 2008

Of werewolves and Zombies

By benzo369

Gooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooood God! I am sitting at the bus stop of some forsaken neighborhood for so long and it is boring listening to TransEurope Express by Kraftwerk:

Trans –EU—RO EX-Press
Trans –EU—RO EX-Press
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Wain-wain-wain-wain, Wa-wain.

My ears perk up to the sound of the words’ hypnotic sounds and, well…
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Trans –EU—RO EX-Press… what the hell, if they don’t let werewolves on the bus fuck it cuz I’m getting on as easily as a teenage punk in the throws of teenagerdom, because it’s like so beautiful and frustrating and ain’t nobody telling this werewolf where and when he’s getting on a bus and ain’t nobody telling me how I should behave once on the f’n bus and I ain’t the only creepy crawly looking mother on the bus am I? Bunch of fucking weirdoes with me, well there is a Zombie or two (can’t get nowhere with out the eyes of a zombie track you) and at the front of the bus is a witch with blonde hair she certainly ain’t no run-of-the-mill witch, so what kind of witch is she…
Trans –EU—RO EX-Press
Trans –EU—RO EX-Press
Trans –EU—RO EX-Press … didn’t take to kindly to my werewolf appearance and slammed her broom in to my dustpan; so what a werewolf won’t get the love of a dear ol’ witch, it just isn’t necessary – not when you are riding the psychedelic highway like this paws in the offing – paws on the bus! – then there are the ghouls on the back of the bus laughing in their ghostly voices: “hahahahahaha,” and of course I am pissed off so I move on back there and ask them a little question that might have resonated properly in their empty spiritualism: “do you fancy a werewolf meal,” to which they haven’t got the clearest idea what the hell I am saying so I explain it in more existential form: and they are so off the bus, running…………………………………………………………………………………
My lips are numb. The bus driver, a man who can control and tear us apart as he aspires, cries out loud: “either you are on wolf man or you are most certainly off!”
Trans –EU—RO EX-Press
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Go ahead, try to tear us apart – try to break my heart, BUUUUSSSMANN…

The world keeps on spinning but that spin is boring. It just keeps on doing the same thing, hour after hour, day after day. Here I am watching the world spin away and keeping time until the bus catches up.

NOPE! It’s time to move.
There is a sign on the road: SUCKER, TRY LUCK
NO SUGAR ADDED

I crawl along a road and there are more people trying to understand why I got off the bus, why I have fangs, why I am werewolf.

“You could be anything, why a wolf?” they ask.
“You could travel anywhere you want when you are on the bus,” I howl.

I feel like a werewolf could do anything if he wanted could go anywhere if he wanted and I am here in the city where dogs sleep with men in a weird animalistic joy and what do I do to stem the whole scourge of animalistic joy? Nothing. I’ve got nothing. But I don’t sleep with men. Not this dog.

“You could be anything, why a wolf?” they ask.
“A vampire, why not? A ghost, why not? A zombie… no.”

Never an f’n zombie, they just follow along and that’s not what you want to be doing when you are on the bus or off the bus. It’s got to be all about you, my good man. The whole trip is a voyage through existence and nobody thinks of werewolves nowadays, certainly not thinking they exist, certainly no thinking they eat and certainly not ever thinking that we can’t be anything else but werewolves, and they really don’t think we exist. But there we are.

More werewolves have joined in and why not, they want on the bus too cuz it’s freaking fantastic there but we are here waiting for the bus at another of one of those bus stops in a forsaken city block waiting…

“Have you ever seen the moon?” Wilcox asks.
“No way, brother,” Lycaon answers.
NO-WAY-BROTHER! Liar. He has seen the moon and if you are getting on this bus you had better see the moon, too Lycaon.
“Have you seen the movie?” Michael asks but what the hell could he know cuz he ain’t really a werewolf but a were-fox and I say as much to the small man to kill the time, while Wilcox and Lycaon keep on arguing the rights of moon. Me, I’m just howling.

A man in a dark coat walks past the rest of the pack and heads right to me, his hand out on an offering: “Are you ok, puppy? Whoooooose a gooooooood lillllllll dogggggggg?” his words stretch out like time, making our co-existence on this planet very… boring.

So Michael does something about it.

“Hey, hey. I want to live. I believe and I want to live!” the man cries out loud. This sends me in to a fit of laughter and Michael – maybe he is a real werewolf after all – lets him go, rolling on the grey-grey SEE-ment sidewalk. Selfishly I hope the man in the dark jacket would rub my belly. But he just runs………A………………………………………………………………………………………………………. ………………WAY…………………………………………..The thing is time is running and running and there is no bus catching it.

Trans –EU—RO EX-Press
Trans –EU—RO EX-Press
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Wain-wain-wain-wain, Wa-wain.

But we get on the slow bus and sink in to our chairs and the ghouls aren’t there, and neither is that blonde witch with the broom, but the zombies… they never really go anywhere, do they. But I can’t stand the zombies and I go to pick a fight with one of them, for I am the devil in fur cloth and I am the one they do not want to be on the bus with, cuz everyone is allowed on the bus with exception of the zombies didn’t they read the sign: SUCKER, TRY LUCK
NO SUGAR ADDED
The bus driver stops the bus and asks if we’re all right but the zombies as always have nothing to say so I go up to the bus driver and ask him: “either you are on, bus man, or you are certainly off this thing.”

“You are wrong, wolf man,” he shouts. But he is off and there is no one on the wheel so guess it’s me. Well I’m driving the bus now – even if I’m unwelcomed – and howling out the driver side window while I’m speeding one million kilometers-per-second blowing day-glow paint off the side thinking – always thinking – what a great place to hide and think. I begin to reflect on my life as a creature as the dimming moon hides the simmering prey from my night of lysergic lunatic lycanthropy on this bus baby, the No. 10 Joy. How long has it been anyways? How long has it been since I last saw a reason to march out and eat? How long has it been since I walked up Lucifer’s Path and kissed the devil’s pale moon sky? How long has it been since I dropped tonight’s hit? It’s all been far too long.

The dogs in the back are howling answers but fuck them too. Michael, who is so much more like a were-fox than werewolf, though he protests, yells at me to stop for were-chicks.

“But we don’t need any fowl on this bus, they’ll just crap on it,” I shout looking backwards.

Lycaon is yelling at the Zombies and Wilcox is laughing at the Zombies and Michael is afraid of the Zombies but these Zombies are on our bus now, they go where we want and where the hell are we going, by the way?

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Not for long. A zombie is out on the road and he is standing in front of the bus and staring at me. He hates werewolves, it is so clear to me that this zombie hates werewolves, WHAT-A-DICK. He gets on the bus and tells me that we werewolves are certainly off the bus in a BIG way. But he doesn’t call us werewolves. He calls us: “gentlemen,” if he only knew what we are, so time to get existential on his ass and I pull out my fangs and bite in to a zombie. Michael, that were-fox, wants off and so we all are off. That f’n were-fox. I am never again on the bus with a were-fox.

The next morning I am transformed back in to human. But that zombie knew from my bite what kind of danger I am. He’s got me behind bars with all my werewolf friends.

“Did he turn?” a werewolf named Chad asks.
I nod my head. “I ain’t ever gonna know, my good man. He pulled us off the bus that is sure. But whether or not a werewolf can turn a zombie in to a werewolf is unknown. Whether or not a zombie can turn a werewolf in to a zombie is unknown.”
“I think you get to choose,” a voice cries from the back of the cell.

But I can’t think of that now just as I can’t ignore that time itself keeps stretching. And the bus won’t ever catch it because it is so boring.

...OR A WOLF

by Lucas Klaukien

Christmas. Christmas in July.
He saw the black thing lying on the sidewalk, no one around to see. He picked it up. A thousand dollars. Just like that, just like that. He tossed the black thing over his shoulder and started to walk away. It was more than anyone could ask of him to contain the bounce in his step and the smile that beamed. The muscles in his face were locked in an expression that did not recall joy so much as … thrill.
Around the corner was a slight man (well, less a man than a male), walking franticly toward him scanning the pavement.
“Hello there,” the slight man said, his tenor recalling the White Rabbit of Alice in Wonderland, “excuse me, I was wondering if you could help me with something.”
“No,” the smiling man said and continued past the slight one without so much as a backward glance.
“Well,” the slight man continued, “have you seen a black wallet, lying on the ground anywhere around here?”
“No,” the still smiling man said as his pace quickened.
The smile did not reach the man’s eyes. It was an almost reflex reaction to good fortune. An impulsive thing, unnatural in its generation. The slight man would not forget the smile that conquered the man‘s mouth but not his eyes.
The slight man sniff, sniff, sniffed the air, caught the smiling man’s scent.
The smiling man shoulder checked all the home. No one saw. No one knew what great fortune he had.

Over the course of the many days and nights that followed, the smile on the fortunate man’s face sagged and sagged until the corners of his lips found their original position below the mainline of his mouth. He grew suspicious and short tempered in the face of inquisitiveness. Friends, co-workers, even his parents found his presence unreasonably tense for the most part and unbearable for the other part. The Fortunate Man couldn’t avoid it though, he tensed up every time anyone asked, “where’d you get the new jacket?” or “new shoes? How much did those set you back?” So, instead of answering, he just grew agitated. Agitated to the point where they thought twice about asking him anymore questions. Soon, his was a world of silence, dinner was a thing characterized by knives scraping on porcelain and loud smacks of chewing, but not conversation. His eyes would dart back and forth between his parents, who had come to visit.
“I like the new tablecloth, son,” his little old father said. But he said nothing, never responding to questions or allegations because he knew better. He was smart enough to realize that they were trying to nail him, trying to appeal to his vanity but he’d never fail himself. He’d never reveal the true origin of his new fortune. All the while too, there was something else that made him tense. It wasn’t guilt.
Eyes. Always eyes on him, always watching, always hiding. On his front step he felt them weighing in on him, spying with oppressive leaden clarity. On his way to the market his shoulders grew heavy with the burden.
“Boy, you’ve been eating like a king lately,” his kindly old grocer would say. The only response he’d give was an icy stare. You mind your own business old man, he thought, grabbing his bags with much purpose.
In today’s world a thousand bucks doesn’t stretch as far as it used to and there soon came the time when his newfound wealth had all but dried up. Indeed he had eaten like a king for two weeks and wore the finest new clothes on his back, the kind of finery he had long fantasized about. But there comes a time when all adventures must end and unearned wealth must surely waste away. So, with a wisp of melancholy and a dollop of nostalgia he picked his keys up from the table to set about on his last trip to the corner store to spend his remaining money on a pack of gum.
It was a warm night, the kind of humid air that made him itchy under his shirt. The kind of humidity that makes one feel hairier and heavier than they really are. Yet, somehow he felt a kind of relief.
Maybe he had felt guilty all that time, though he wouldn’t know why. But the eyes were off him, the burden was lifted. He began to feel like his old self again. Slowly the smile began to creep slowly back up from the corners of his mouth. Even the angry barking of the dogs as he passed his neighbors yards could not stop the momentum of his surging lips.
He turned round the corner and who else was there to greet him but the slight man he had seen that fateful night.
“Hello, sir,” the slight man said with a confidence that belied his stature.
The smiling man said nothing and continued to walk past the slight man.
“I know you took my money,” the slight man said, “and I’m giving you this last opportunity to give it back.”
“What,” the smiling man said, stopped dead in his track, “what did you just say to me?”
“I said, if you give me what’s left of my money, I won’t bother you again.”
The smiling man’s heart began to pound and race. He knew he got into trouble every time somebody got his blood up but he didn’t care.
“This is your last chance,” the slight man uttered with trembling voice. The smiling man was no longer smiling and he wondered if the slight man had a gun. He turned around to face the slight man, thoughts racing, heart still pounding, blood coursing, the slight man approached him and began to spit, “pth, pth, pth. Hair in my mouth.”
The slight man removed his glasses as his upper lip curled like a rabid dog. The clouds rushed overhead as though on rails revealing a thinning bright area. His back arched and fingers clenched into hideous claws. In a tone too deep for a man of his stature he growled, “I work hard…I work hard!”
At the office he put up with all of it. Co-workers dumping off the most tedious articles of paperwork at his office with chummy smiles and good natured quips and jibes. They didn’t respect him. The way the water cooler, for long moment the center of social activity, would clear out the moment he decided to get thirsty. The way he saw them gather around Sally Westrum, arms casually rested on the corners of cubicles, glance over from across the office in his direction and try to hide their laughter after he had asked her to see a production of Romeo & Juliet. The way he overheard Frank Catcher brag about the night he spent with her. The way he overheard Chip Dunsmuir brag about the night he spent with her. His perfect hair and good posture. The way he spent the Christmas party in the corner of the room, hanging out with the fake Christmas tree. And now he was being forced to put up with it outside the office. The way he needed the money. The way he’d had to bury his dog the day before because he suddenly could no longer afford the operation Chuckles desperately needed. The line was drawn in the sand. It all ended here and now.
The clouds parted revealing the perfect opalescent pearl of the moon.
The adrenaline coursing through his body he lunged at the smiling man who hunched no longer smiling and covered in a course mat of fur. The shirt he had bought with the slight man’s money ripped off his now hulking back and his face a snout that really was that of a rabid dog … or a wolf. And the eyes, the eyes were human but there was something about them something cold and distant, emotionless, eyes that didn’t smile.

The next day the smiling man felt great. Felt better than he had in about a month. He stopped on his way down the street and noticed people congregating along a line of police tape, the police gathered around what looked like black paint splattered on the sidewalk.
“Hmm,” the smiling man said to himself as he chewed his gum with a newfound vigor, “the black stuff looks like dried blood.” He walked away with his hands in his pockets, blowing a bubble.