Ryan's Non-complaint

Hi folks, Ryan the Werewolf here. Looks like it's going to be a pretty relaxed meeting this week. A couple of our regulars are off on vacation or something, and I don't know about the rest of you but I am definitely in that chill-down stretch leading to the dark of the moon on the 31st, so unless somebody here is having some real issues...? Anybody? Rough week?

Okay, good, then I move we adjourn the official meeting right now and cut right to the social hour. Do I have a second? Okay, all those in favor, say aye. Opposed? The ayes have it.

Well. So here we are, the dog days of summer. I like the sound of that. "Dog days." Dunno about the rest of you, but I really love this time of year. I can spend all day laying on the deck napping in the sun, and none of my neighbors bats an eye. I can even fill up the kids' pool with water and lay in it all afternoon, and nobody complains. And talk about meat! This is the one time of year when I can eat nothing but nearly raw red meat, every day of the week, and nobody looks at me like it's weird. Of course, I do have to fire up the grille and make a little pretense of scorching the steaks on both sides, first, but that's a small price to pay.

You know what's the one thing I don't like about this time of year? Sleeping. When it gets hot like this I have the hardest time in the world sleeping in a bed at night. So my solution is I move down to the couch in the family room in the basement, and give the old Tivo and my Netflix account a real workout.

And that's the question I'd like to hear you all answer tonight. What's your favorite were-thing movie? I mean, there's Lon, of course. You just can't question any movie with Lon. But what's next on your list? An American Werewolf in London? The Cat People? I don't know about you, but that Nastasja Kinski — like, rowr! She's enough to make me think about going feline.

But there's one I think is really great, that maybe most of you are missing, and that's Wolf, with Jack Nicholson and Michelle Pfeiffer. I just watched it the other night, and it is so cool. All the stuff in it about the publishing business is pure bull, of course, but when Jack transforms, he is just — man, he turns into Hugh Jackman! And not faggy tap-dancing Hugh Jackman, but X-Men Hugh Jackman! God, I wish I looked that good when I transform.

Anyway, that's my pick. What've you got?

Were-Care

The idea had come to Karen as she was completing her degree in early childhood education. There had been classes on dealing with all sorts of children with special needs. Academically gifted children, academically challenged children, physically challenged children, children with ADD and ADHD, the list went on and on. But there was no listing for children with Acquired Lycanthropic Polymorphism Syndrome.

The twins, Karen’s younger brother and sister, had been bitten by a were-fox before they even learned how to walk. Both their parents held down full time jobs, so much of the twins’ care fell to Karen. Karen’s parents felt guilty dropping such a big responsibility on an 11 year old girl, but Karen loved it. She taught them to walk, to talk, potty trained them and taught them not to devour people or pets during their full transformations.

Caring for the twins sparked Karen’s interest in early child care and early childhood education. She had the idea while still a freshman in college. She spend all her spare time refining and researching and, by graduation, had a complete business plan for Were-Care, the world’s first child care facility entirely dedicated to children with ALPS.

Karen picked San Francisco to open Were-Care. She picked that city because it was well known for tolerance to any and all people who might traditionally be viewed as abnormal. Unfortunately, that tolerance did not extend to children with ALPS. Parents, who would have been appalled if their child refused to play with a third world child adopted by two flamboyant lesbians with AIDS, actively avoided any child with the “taint” of ALPS.

Her years of research had given Karen several possible locations in the city for her center plus the names of influential contacts in the San Francisco were community. She had even found others like her; older brothers and sisters who had helped raise ALPS children, to work in the center. Discreet mailings to parents of young ALPS children led to interviews with parents. When the parents saw Karen’s preparations, applications for children to attend Were-Care poured in. The school was filled in less than a week and even had a waiting list.

From the beginning, things went smoothly. The child care center was unobtrusive, simply having a small sign reading “Child Care and Preschool” out front. People unassociated with the school assumed it was simply another preschool catering to the wealthy and paid it no further attention.

Everything went smoothly for six wonderful months, until this morning.

Karen was already planning to expand her business. The waiting list was growing and she desperately wanted to help those parents and children on the list. If expansion hadn’t been in the works, she wouldn’t have agreed to interview a father who wanted to be added to the waiting list. Maybe the man would have gotten past the secure door anyway. She would never know.

At 10:00 AM sharp, the intercom buzzed in Karen’s office. “Yes?” she said, answering the buzz.

“Hi, I’m Jim Cradle. I have an appointment with Karen Hutchins?” a man’s voice replied.

“You’re right on time, Mr. Cradle. I’ll be right up to let you in,” Karen said.

Jim Cradle turned out to as nondescript as a person could be, but he smiled and shook her hand as she let him in. Starting off toward her office, Karen said over her shoulder, “My office is just over here, Mr. Cradle.”

“How did you hear of us,” Karen asked as the two of them sat down.

“Oh, you know,” Cradle replied, “I just poked around. Do you know that I couldn’t find out anything about your facility except that it’s new and exclusive? Haven’t you ever heard of advertising?”

“Our parents value their privacy,” Karen replied, her voice cooling considerably. “I don’t know what newspaper you work for-“

Karen froze as a gun appeared in Mr. Cradle’s hand. “I don’t work for a newspaper. You might say, I’m more of a freelancer. I had to ask myself, what kind of preschool would go out of its way not to advertise itself? Obviously, a very exclusive one. And exclusive means expensive. And expensive means parents willing to pay a lot of money to get their precious little babies back unharmed.”

“B-b-but our parents aren’t rich!” Karen protested.

“Yeah, and I’m Santa Claus,” Mr. Cradle sneered. “Now, I’ve found three year olds to be the best bunch to take. They’re just old enough that you can scare them into being still. So, you and I are going to go down to your three year old room, load them all into your big van and drive out of here.”

“I’m not lying! These children aren’t-"

“Look, either you can come along and help keep the brats quiet and safe or I can shoot you and take whoever is in charge of the three year old room,” the man said. “Your choice.”

Frightened and dejected, Karen got up and led the man down the hall to the three year old room. Along the way, she tried once more to convince Mr. Cradle, or whatever his real name was, that he was making a mistake.

“Please, please listen to me,” she said. “These children come from mostly middle class families. They don’t have a lot of money to pay a ransom!”

“For the children’s sake, you better be wrong about that,” Cradle said as they entered the three year old room.

The children were all sitting at tables, getting out their morning snack. The teacher was busy passing out napkins and pouring juice into paper cups. All the children smiled when they saw Karen.

“Hi Miss Karen!” they all called out.

The teacher looked up briefly, smiling to Karen then started to go back pouring juice. Then she froze as her brain registered the man with the gun.

“K-karen? What’s going on?” the teacher asked, her voice quavering.

“It’s a kidnapping, lady,” Cradle answered, waving his gun around, “and you get to help keep the little monsters in line.”

The bossiest of the three year olds, a girl named Caitlyn, said “Miss Janet didn’t ask you, mister. She asked Miss Karen. You’re being rude!”

“Rude?” laughed Cradle. “I’ll show you rude!” He shoved Karen toward the tables. She crashed into them spilling drinks and snacks all over the floor and the children. The children cried out in surprise and fear.

“That man was mean to Miss Karen!” said the Caitlyn, walking over to stand right in front of Cradle. “Let’s be mean to him!”

Cradle laughed, “Do your worst, little girl. I’m not worried.”

Caitlyn was worried, though. Doing her worst was what she’d been taught not to do. Then Miss Karen said, “You heard the man, Caitlyn. Do your worst. All of you do your worst.”

In that last instant, as a dozen children transformed into were creatures, Cradle probably realized that he had picked the wrong child care facility for his plan. Fortunately, Cradle was a big man. There was enough of him for all the classes to enjoy.

Pride

“Hi, my name is Shannon, and I’m a were-lion.”

[Group: “Hi, Shannon.”]

All of you are monsters, completely out of control. You don’t deserve to live.

“Sorry, I must have spaced out there for a minute.” She gives a little chuckle.

“ I guess a good place to start is at the beginning. It’s not really something I like to relive, but…

But my therapist thought it might be useful for me to…

[Someone in the crowd lets out a nervous cough]

“Um, anyhow, my symptoms started at an early age. The first time occurred when I was about three years old. My mom took me to the park. I remember it being a really beautiful day and having the feeling that nothing could get any better or worse…you know the way you feel about the world when you’re a kid. My younger sister hadn’t been born yet so I got the kind of undivided attention from my mother that can really spoil a child, ya know? I remember her pushing me on the swing and then I ran up the ladder and flew down the slide until I couldn’t see straight. Then I sort of dizzily hobbled over to the sandbox.

“We had brought a bucket and shovel and I was enjoying filling it with sand and dumping it out again. We had been the only ones at the park. Out of nowhere a little boy, a few years older than me, plopped down near me in the sandbox. The details are a little fuzzy, he must have tried to take the shovel and bucket away from me because I would never have attacked him unprovoked.” She looks around at the group nervously, trying to decipher whether or not they believe her.

“Either I blanked out during the attack or it’s just because it was so long ago and I was pretty young, ‘cause I don’t remember it. Just images really. I remember the screaming, my mother pulling me off a lifeless mass only slightly larger than myself. Probably the clearest picture in my head is the way the sand looked. Kind of like the beach after a rain—pockmarked and wet. Except it was blood, and it was red. And I remember when my mother pulled me away the wet sand stuck to the bottom of her feet, exposing the dry, white sand underneath in the shape of her sandals.

“I was a big accomplishment for my pediatrician. I remember my mother being surprised at my having ALPS and showing symptoms so young. The doctor just gave a nerdy grin and said ‘the force is strong with this one’. After we saw him we stood in a narrow hallway to pay the receptionist and schedule our next appointment. You had to be blind not to notice the pictures of all the doctors in the practice on the wall with plaques underneath championing their medical accomplishments. I used to like to count all the plaques and secretly congratulate the doctors when they got a new one. When we stood in the hallway after our second visit, I noticed our doctor had a new plaque under his picture. My mother said it announced that he was the first and thus far only doctor in the practice to diagnose anyone with ALPS. But after our next visit I noticed it wasn’t there. I found out later they were starting to get complaints. People were afraid to sit in the waiting room. In the eyes of the non-were, any and every kid now had the ability to maul them to pieces. The sudden burst of tears from a child that decided he didn’t want to play with a toy fire truck or found he was scheduled for a shot just unglued everybody. I think they even had a receptionist quit. So they took the plaque down.

[Her posture changes and the faraway look vanishes. She stands taller and looks more confident.]

“In reality they found a good cocktail of drugs for me rather quickly. And with the exception of a few unfortunate incidents in adolescence, I’ve been problem free. I still change, but it’s really very slight—only my husband notices the difference.

“That’s all I have to say. I hope my story has been of some encouragement to you. Just keep trying all the drugs out there until you find the ones that work best for you. And don’t underestimate the power of self-determination. So much can be achieved if you only will yourself to do it.”

A Whiff of Brimstone

"Hi, my name is Ryan, and I'm a werewolf."

[Group: "Hi, Ryan."]

"This has been a rough week for me. Most of the time I do okay, I guess. It's been months since I've even thought about taking a little nip. But this past week, I got hit with a double-whammy. Thursday night was the dark of the Moon, of course, which always gets me down to start with, and then Friday, well —

"Look, I don't like to admit it. It's this whole hyper mucho mega-macho thing, I think, because I've yet to meet another werewolf who will admit it. And it really does peeve me, because I still remember how much I used to love the Fourth of July when I was a kid: the sparklers, the snakes, the bottle-rockets, the ladyfingers; sitting on the blanket in the park by the lake with my parents, watching the summer night sky explode in fireworks. But now...

"I tell people it's the smell of the brimstone — the sulfur. Everyone understands that. People with ALPS, everyone knows they have extremely heightened senses of smell, and all sorts of common things can provoke unpleasant reactions.

"Except the truth is, it's the sound. I can't understand why. On an intellectual level, I know exactly what that sound is, and I know it's mostly harmless. But on some deep, visceral, primordial level, the sound of firecrackers exploding scares the screaming bejeebers out of me, and makes me want to — oh, I don't know. Dig a hole and hide under the refrigerator, or something. New Year's Eve, Cinco de Mayo, the Fourth of July: I've spent entire nights hiding under my bed, curled up in fetal position, wincing every time a firecracker pops in the distance and begging God to make it rain so that the fireworks will stop.

"If it was just one night, I think I could handle it. But the little bastards down the street never settle for just one night, do they? No, they start up sniping with bottle-rockets and Black Cats about a week in advance, and by the 3rd they've hauled out the serious artillery and are keeping up a steady barrage of heavy mortars and screamers. Then there's the Fourth itself, with the ordnance going off pretty much nonstop from dawn 'til two or three the next morning, followed by the 5th, when all the local morons go into use it or lose it mode and try to burn up everything they've got left over. So by the time we get around to the 6th —

"Well, let's just say it wasn't bad enough yet to warrant calling my sponsor, but I was definitely way overdue for this meeting. And I have to tell you, I really like it here, with you folks. I feel safe. I feel understood. I feel —

"Hey, what's that smell? Can't you all smell it? It smells like —

"SCOTT! So help me God, if you so much as touch that lit match to that fuse in here I will rip your worthless gizzard out and serve it as an appetizer! Are we clear on this point?

"Now, where was I? Oh yes, well — why thank you, yes I would like another cup of coffee. Decaf please, I'm trying to learn to relax."

Bay of Pigs

Bill kicked the posts of his McCain yard sign firmly into the clay of his front yard.

Not the best candidate… but at least he’s sure to keep the war going.

Bill was a big fan of war. Our boys were the best… and he loved to see ‘em prove it. He was a military history junkie. ALPS had kept him from the service, but it hadn’t taken the steel and gunpowder from his blood.

His father had fought in Nam. His grandfather had fought in WWII, and there was a steel German helmet in their closet proving his great-grandfather’s service in WWI.

Before that, the family could trace members that had fought in Mexico, against the Indians, against the British and before that, against the French.

Bill dusted off his hands and looked at the sign in satisfaction.

Then he noticed something profoundly disturbing.

Across the street, there was another sign.

Obama 2008.

He felt a twist inside his stomach.

Obama 2008.

He didn’t trust Obama. He was weak. One of those scum-sucking commie anti-war libs dedicated to the sissification of America.

Obama 2008.

It was staring at him.

Be a good neighbor… be a good neighbor… be a good neighbor. People have a right to their beliefs, no matter how pathetic and weak.

Then he saw something else across the street.

His sissy liberal neighbor was grinning at him. Drinking a tiny sissy cup of sissy espresso. And grinning.

I hate that guy… but… I need to control myself. Remember the bay of pigs!

The “bay of pigs” was his wife’s name for a particularly explosive transformation that had almost put them behind bars back when they were dating. How prison had been avoided was still anyone’s guess. If they’d found the bodies… well, maybe they’d just think it was an animal attack? Yeah right… like animals tied rocks to bodies.
There had to have been a “human” involved.

What about a were-human?

Ha!

-----

He and Sharon had been cruising along on a perfect late afternoon, top down, enjoying the breeze blowing in their hair. It was a perfect day. They’d picked flowers at the park, danced for hours at a free open-air jazz festival and held hands as they’d strolled along the river. Now he was taking her back to her parents’ place for dinner. To their left was a sparkling bay… to the right… the smoky green woods.

She really was a classy girl. Ever since his first whiff of her hair, he’d been captivated. His attraction was wild, powerful, and unstoppable. He had to make her his. Being a gentleman, he could hardly wait for their wedding day when she’d finally belong to him… mind… soul… and especially body.

As he gripped the wheel… he was thinking about when he could finally get up the nerve to pop the question… and how to tell her about his condition.

And he was driving a bit too fast.

WHOOP!

A siren burst on behind them. Blue lights flashed angrily.

“Oh shoot…”

Sharon looked at him with a half-grin. “Think you were going a little fast there, sweetie?”

“Yeah… shoot… I’ll pull over here, darn it.”

He pulled over to the side of the road. The cop car crunched up on the gravel behind him, raising dust in the slanted rays of the setting sun.

Two cops stepped out of their cruiser, hands on their guns.

“Well, Share, guilty ‘til proven innocent, it looks like.”

“Just be cool, Willy… you’ll be fine.”

“Evenin’ son.”

“Good evening officer. How can I help you?”

The cop spit on the ground.

“How you gonna help me? You another officer? Give me your g------ license and registration and shut the hell up.”

Bill shuffled around in his glove compartment. Wrappers, torn maps and brochures fell onto the floor at Sharon’s feet as she tried to help him.

The officer snarled at him. “Come on kid, I ain’t got all night.”

“I’m doing my best, okay?”

The cop leaned in the window. His face was red and dark.

“An attitude like that’s gonna land your ass in jail. Give me your docs.”

Behind the car, the other officer was looking at their license plate. Then he came up to Sharon’s window.

“Hey there, babe. Why are you hanging around with a loser like this?”

She started, shocked. “That’s none of your business, officer.”

Bill heard the interchange as he finally handed over his crumpled registration to Officer #1. He was seething inside. And then he realized what was about to happen.

“Officer?”

“Yeah?”

“I really, REALLY have to pee.”

“What the hell you trying to pull?”

“I just have to go! I was, uh, sort of driving fast so I could get to a bathroom. Seriously.”

The officer looked at him.

“You think I’m a damn fool?”

“No sir, absolutely not.”

The officer stared at him for minute, then relented.

“You can take a whiz by the road in those trees. But if you pull anything, so help me I’ll shoot you.”

He backed away from the window. The other officer was leering at Sharon.

Bill stepped out slowly, feeling his were-self rise within him. He had to get out of Sharon’s sight – quick! Control… control…

He walked briskly to the woods, then entered.

“That’s enough,” the officer barked at him.

Bill needed to get a little further out of view. In front of him was a brush-filled gully. Feigning a struggle with his zipper, he tripped forwards down the slope as if it were accidental.

“Ahhh!” he yelped. The officer was caught off-guard. He ran forwards to the edge of the gully – but didn’t see anything. He fired his gun wildly into the trees.

“Come out, damn you!”

No answer.

“I’m warning you, punk – OUT!”

He took a step forward, gun drawn.

Then another step.

Then he took his final step. From behind a tree, a hairy arm snatched out and took his gun.

And his arm with it.

With a howl of rage, Bill the were-tiger tore into the officer’s chest and tore his heart out.

The body slumped to the ground and Bill crouched with it, feasting on hot flesh, jaws snatching bite after bite of Smithburg’s finest.

With a start, he realized what he’d just done. His animal brain wanted to gorge on blood… but the dim human brain behind it was recoiling in horror.

Sharon!

He left the officer’s corpse behind the trees and snuck furtively back towards the car.

The passenger door was open.

Beside it, the second officer lay in a pool of blood.

And the most gorgeous leopard-woman in the world was licking her lips as she took another bite from his gaping chest.

Bill’s heart leapt inside him! This was HIS girl! His beautiful leopard girl! His wonderful, sweet jazz-dancing Sharon!

He sprang from the woods to her. Her dress hung off her spotted sides… and as he nuzzled up to her, a glimpse of her perfect row of teats drove him wild. To keep himself from ravishing her, he instead took a monstrous bite from Officer #2.

Then, slowly, he started to return to human form… and as he did, he suddenly was struck with the danger of their situation.

So far, the road had been empty – but this body needed to disappear – fast! Together, he and his gorgeous were-girl dragged the corpse quickly across the road and threw it over the cliff into the bay, having tied it to a heavy rock with their jumper cables. They did the same with the first officer… except this time they had to use the officer’s belt.

Both sank into the deep water.

Sharon was looking more human again, as was he. They were both covered in gore.

“I’m sorry, Willy… I couldn’t help myself. He was… being really gross. I just… snapped.”

“It’s okay… I’m just happy you’re fine. I can’t believe you’re one too.”

She grinned toothily. “There’s a lot about me you don’t know yet.”

After embracing, they quickly licked each other’s faces clean and jumped into the car.

And later that night, he asked.

And she said yes.

-----

His neighbor was still grinning. But now Bill was grinning too.

Remembering the “bay of pigs” always put him in a better mood. With a grin, he waved to the sissy liberal and then went into his house whistling.

He had a documentary on D-Day waiting with his name on it.

And soon, Sharon would be back from the kid’s T-ball game.

Life was good!

The Were-Wimp

“Hi. My name’s Hank and I’m a were-wimp.”

[Group: Snicker.]

“I mean a werewolf.”

[Group: “Hi, Hank.”]

“Man, old habits can be hard to break. You see, Larry always made me- ah, I’m getting ahead of myself. Let’s see, where to start?

“Okay, I’ve been a werewolf for as long as I can remember. Mom says I got Acquired Lycanthropic Polymorphism Syndrome from a blood transfusion. You know, back before they screened all the blood for ALPS? Mom says they had to do some kind of surgery when I was one and that’s when I got the bad blood. Mom says that’s the only possible explanation because we don’t have any dirty, mongrelized people in our family.”

[Group: “Hey!”]

“Um, yeah, sorry about that. Mothers. You know?

“Anyway, none of us knew about it until I was in middle school. Seventh grade. Man, it was the worst! There was this bully named Larry and he and his stupid followers made a hobby of tormenting me and beating me up. Then one day, Larry had me cornered in the restroom and was about to dunk my head in the toilet when I suddenly felt… different somehow. I can’t really explain it. Unless you experience it yourself-

“Oh, wait. I guess all of you have experienced it, haven’t you? So you know what I mean! It felt good. Hell, it felt great! I didn’t transform, just got stronger. There Larry was, trying to push me into the toilet and I just stood up. Larry tried even harder to push my face into the toilet – and it didn’t do any good! Then he tried to punch me and I just dodged. Like lightning! He swung at me and I just wasn’t there! He hit the wall instead of me and, man, did he howl.

“In pain, I mean. Not, you know, like a wolf. Because he wasn’t. A wolf, I mean.

“And then I punched Larry. And he just about flew out of stall and bounced off the wall! It was so cool! Then I came out and grabbed Larry and dragged him back into the stall. I was dunking him in the toilet and flushing it every time when a bunch of other kids came into the restroom. They were all astounded at what I was doing. Can’t blame them, because I was pretty amazed, myself. I was suddenly the seventh grade hero for beating the crap out of Larry.

“When I got home, I couldn’t wait to tell Mom and Dad what I’d done. They’d been telling me I ought to fight back when Larry started beating me up and I’d finally done it. But I should have just told them the basics and left out the whole “feeling different” bit. Mom heard that and I thought she'd have a conniption fit! ‘What do you mean, you felt different?’

“I tried to explain, but, well, you all know you can’t explain it to someone who doesn’t already know. Like I said earlier. So Mom got all religious on me and claimed I must have been possessed by demons. She dragged me down to the church and had me just about bathing in holy water while she talked to the priest. The priest wasn’t buying into Mom’s demonic possession bit and suggested she just take me to a doctor for a physical.

“That’s when we found out I had ALPS. Blood tests for the physical. Yeah, they’d started screening for it, finally. I think Mom would have preferred it if I was possessed. First, she tried blaming it on Dad’s side of the family. She never liked Uncle Ross, so she figured it was his fault somehow. I never could follow Mom’s logic anyway. Not that there was much logic in it. Anyway, the doctor told her it wasn’t genetic. It took a while, but she finally decided it had to be the blood transfusion.

“All the way home, she lectured me about how we had to be careful about my dirty secret. That’s what she called it, my dirty secret. What would the neighbors think? And what about the ladies at church? Great parental support, huh? Except I didn’t care. As far as I was concerned, being a werewolf was the coolest, best thing that had ever happened to me. I mean, I dunked Larry’s head in the toilet! I was the hero of the seventh grade! How cool was that for a kid who was usually a geek? Pretty damned cool, let me tell you!

“And it might have stayed cool if I hadn’t screwed the pooch. Uh, no offense, Jim.”

[Jim: “I'm used to it.”]

“Thanks. Anyway, the next day, when I got to school, Larry and all of his stupid followers were waiting for me. They dragged me off into the bushes to get some revenge for what I did to Larry. But I wasn’t worried because I was sure I’d get the different feeling and just beat them all up. Only it didn’t work that way. Oh, I started feeling different, all right, but I guess being out numbered eight to one kicked that feeling into high gear.

“I fully transformed. One second Larry and his little evil minions were dragging a wimpy seventh grader into the bushes and the next a werewolf was tearing them up. I didn’t even care what I was doing to them as I clawed and bit them all. I had just enough control that I didn’t kill them, but they got pretty badly mauled.

“Maybe I should have killed them. Yeah, I know, not what we’re supposed to say. But sometimes, I still wish I had. While I was mauling them, I didn’t know what happened to people who got bitten by a werewolf. I didn’t know that’s how ALPS was spread. I didn’t know I was turning the school’s biggest bully and all his stupid followers into werewolves.

“And they were all bigger, meaner werewolves than I was. You know, most people don’t think about it, but werewolves are a lot like wolves. We run in packs if we can. And what does every pack have? An alpha werewolf. Just take a wild guess who the alpha was in our little seventh grade pack?

“If you guessed Larry, go to the head of the class. I thought my life was Hell before I turned Larry into a werewolf. It was a paradise compared to what came afterwards. Larry ruined my life growing up. I only got away from him because he was too stupid to get into college. And then I landed a job here and heard about this group. I figured this would be the perfect place to get the help I need!

“What I need is my own pack. A bigger pack than the one Larry’s got. And I’m not biased. I’ll take were-coyotes, were-badgers, anything. I just need enough people with ALPS to help me kick Larry’s ass and get some revenge. Who’s with me?”

[Group organizer: “Well, look at the time! That’s all for tonight.”]

“Hey, where’s everyone going? Come on, we ALPS types have to stick together, right? Right?

“Damn.”

Mr. Nice Guy

“Hi folks. I’m Jim. And I’m a were-wolf.”

[Group: “Hi, Jim.”]

“This is weird for me to be here. I'm really a nice guy. I hate this kind of thing. I hate having problems, see? I guess I should tell you what's up, now, right? Well, uh, here goes.

“I guess I’ve never been a guy to let my feelings show. Just a decent all-around guy. The kind that helps you fix your car.

“Particularly not the sort that would need to join a support group. But… I… just can’t cope anymore.

“Actually, it’s not me – I mean, I can cope… but in all honesty my wife has been on my case. She’s wanted me to do something about my, uh, transformations for a long time.

“When we were dating, and early in our marriage it was alright, I guess. My eyes were totally on her. But over the last five years it’s not cool anymore.

“Part of the issue, I guess, is not that I get violent or anything. It’s just that… well… I get, uh, a little randy as a wolfman… and I can’t control myself. Even though I want to.

“Okay… I see everyone is, uh looking at me. Stop looking at me. This is hard enough without your stares, you know. Seriously, stop it.

“Alright… so… my urges.

“Sometimes I’ll be somewhere, like the steakhouse where the girls wear those little shorts, and suddenly – bam – I’m a werewolf. It’s not really obvious, I guess. I can feel the wolf energy course through me, then I just want to, uh, have relations with the closest female.

“It doesn’t take much to switch, either. Some college girl will bend forward to wipe the table and suddenly – I’m there. Crazy and hopped up.

“You know how the old cartoon is? Where the guy sees a girl and suddenly he’s transformed into a drooling wolf for a minute. Yeah, that’s me.

“And… that’s not the worst of it.

“Stop it. You’re looking at me. I’m serious. I’ll kill you all and feast on your corpses. Aw shoot, I didn't mean to say that. Sorry, people. Just tense, that's all.

“I mean, I want support. Not to be looked at like a freak. At least I’m not a turncoat, like some other folks here. Not naming names, but… just saying.

[A partially transformed were-badger coughs nervously.]

“Good, right. Anyhow… the really embarrassing thing… STOP STARING, YOU FREAKS!”

[The were-badger falls out of his chair and shuffles quickly away.]

“Okay, I’m just a little hot under the collar. Tension gets me, too. Tension and lust, folks. Sorry, ladies... I'm sorry you're having to hear this...

“Dang, this is tough. I was always a nice guy, you know. Really dang nice.

“Alright, okay… what the heck was I saying? Oh right. The embarrassing part.

“The really bad thing about my, uh, issue… is that it’s not always girls that turn me on. It, uh also takes place around, uh… attractive, uh… well…

“Aw shoot… I’ll just say it like this. I can’t watch dog shows anymore. Ever.

“Okay? Are you all happy? I shared it, okay. That’s my thing. When it’s just girls, my wife almost understands… but when the neighbor is walking her dog… and she’s in a little sports bra, and her collie is wearing one of those faux leather harnesses… I mean… hot dang… I can’t figure out which is more hot, you know… the tight spandex over girl-fanny…. or a fluffy tail waggin’ in the wind… this one time… the lady and her dog… man… okay… she was, uh… washing the dog… and they were both getting sudsy in the yard… and OH CRAP!

[Suddenly Jim's face becomes slick with sweat… for a moment his eyes roll back… then his eyebrows and the hair on his arms are darker]

“CRAP CRAP CRAP!!! AROOOOOOO! MAN! I mean, WOLF! I’m ALL freakin’ WOLF right now! Hey you… babe in the front row… you got a poodle at home you wanna show me, eh? HEE HEE! Come on, fox, throw me a bone here! What? Is the moon not full enough for you? C’mon, SHAKE THAT TAIL FOR ME!”

“AROOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!”