Teen Werewolves: Very Much Unlike Michael J. Fox

In the movies teen werewolves are cool and play ball and can help the geek get the hot blonde chick who's as dumb as dirt but nonetheless looks good.  In real life... well... well, you'll see.

Linda McSoapdish had a lovely home on Winchester Street, off General Custard Avenue, deep in the heart of San Antonio, Texas.  It was an old Victorian classic, with a small porch and a second floor turret with a peaked green shingled roof and green trimmed bay windows. It had a lovely walk up to the porch, with thriving green grass on both sides and a acacia tree.  It had been a venue for many events in the neighborhood, small dinners and potlucks and the like, but never before had any of them been so grim.  The subject of teen werewolves had been brought up by Mrs. Betty Buglefish, who had muttered a silly joke in between mouthfuls of her infamous Davy Crockett Casserole (infamous because no one liked it: many mused that perhaps she called it that because she made it with bits of his hat).  Everyone had seen the news special, and everyone was doing their best to avoid the issue, as it was never good to meddle in with anyone else's family business unless they asked for help.  Or at least so the people there felt.

The evening had been progressing along amiably enough, though it was noticeably more quiet.  That was of course, until Mrs. Buglefish decided to open her slimy mouth.

The family dog Houston had come up to her lap to beg for a slice of ham, still appetizing to his nose despite the stench of her casserole.  She was sitting by herself on an old recliner that no longer reclined--just like she always did-- eating and keeping to herself.  Which was generally how everyone liked it.  It wasn't that she was altogether detestable, she just had faults and mean streaks, and furthermore simply wouldn't have taken no for an answer, even if she was told not to come, so it was best to leave her alone to sit and enjoy her meal.  All the sooner would she leave.

The dog came up to her, and she looked down with a particularly stupid grin on her face.

"Ohh Houston" she patted his head, "At least YOU'VE still got your head."

She tossed the beloved mutt a piece of ham, which he devoured in all of 0.03 seconds.

"What?"  It cut through the air like a knife.  Many had to struggle not to drop their plates.  In fact, Wilmer Applebottom did, and was quite embarrassed.

Whut you say?

The sound had startled her, for she didn't think anyone was really listening to her.  No one ever listened to her.

"Pardon?"  Mrs. Buglefish asked.

"You heard me."  The voice belonged to Amanda Pigguts.  She was Mrs. McSoapdish's sister.  "Don't play dumb.  Not now.  My niece!  That's my niece you're referring to. . . you, you. . ." She was fuming, her face a fine cherry tomato red. "She's just a teenager. . . Just a kid. . . Don't say you never--" she was choking back the tears.

"That I never cut off a dogs head?"  Mrs. Buglefish asked metaphorically. "Why no, I have not.  Not ever."  Her face was now twisted into a wicked oldy lady smile: dentures and weathered hairy lips.  There, there you go you smug bastards.  Its what you get for all those years of you turning your noses up at my casserole, for talking behind my back.  Its what you damn well get.  Your kids are freaks. . . Stupid little freaks. . . She thought all this, but didn't say it.  Mr. Wilmer Applebottom. . . she looked at them one by one. . . Linda McSoapdish. . . Amanda Pigguts. . . oh and what is this?  Cowering and hiding in the corner?  Why, its Alemina Straussencake.  Oh yes, Alemina, how ashamed you must be, just imagine it!  A priest's daughter! Caught up in Kibbles and Bits and wearing a tail!  Barking at the moon!

"DAMN YOU! . . . DAMN. . .  For my sister's sake. . ."

Look, they're going on and on about this, just this:

"Oh yes, oh yes. . . for your sister's sake."  Mrs. Buglefish swooned. "What of my dog?"  She snapped.

"Look my fair people, for beyond the window lays high in the sky a full moon!"  She pulled back the curtain, revealing a white moon set against the sky.  "Those bastards are 'prolly convening right now!  Cooking up some dastardly plot to scoop up Dorothy's Toto!"

She was part right.  Just down the street and out 400 yards into the thicket there was another gathering of similar purpose, and just as grim. They mingled amongst spiny bumelia and black brush that formed a pocket of thorns around them.  It served as adequate coverage to conceal the graveness of their dilemma, and the thorns a deterrent for anyone who would happen to get nosy, and besides: enemies were everywhere.

There were 5 or 6 of them, boys and girls, all teenagers dressed similarly in dark clothing.  Simple enough, if not for the tails dangling from their belts between their legs, across the rocks they sat on, sometimes across their very laps.  Simple enough, if not for the tails, and the chains, and the dog collars, and the leashes, and the contact lenses like cats eyes, like wolves eyes. . .  with grim smiles that revealed false canine teeth, sharp with a malice intent to tear flesh. They were without much artificial light, but the moon above had milked their area over in a dim lunar light.  It only took a moment before their eyes adjusted and they could see one another well enough to give the secret signal of the Crimson Blood Wolf Pack.  It was soon followed by a muffled howl at the moon.  They then all sat, to discuss the grave order of all they had seen.

They too had seen the interview, in fact many of them were in it.  They claimed not to be seeking attention, yet, after the airing it was all they had got.  The neighborhood seemed different, rides to school seemed more cold, school itself was considerably much worse, and the mall was so bad they weren't even allowed to hang outside anymore.  First banned from the mall itself.  Then its OUTSIDE.  Life was tough.  But as I said: enemies were everywhere.

Kimarah Nightfang, the acting President of the Crimson Blood Wolf Pack in Wolfie Blackheart's absence was first off to address her fellow werewolves.  She rose slowly, wearing her traditional werewolf attire, complete with the wolf eyes.  She glimpsed up towards the moon and thought back on what she had done when she first heard the news.  She went on the internet:

Thats. . . lllow.

"This is the honorable Vice President of the Crimson Blood Wolf Pack standing in as President in Blackie Wolfheart's absence.  As you already know, she has been tethered to the chain link fence in her backyard by her parents, who viciously used Wolfie's leash to detain her in the yard like a common house dog!"

Growls of discontent came up from the contingent of werewolves, brooding like the troubled teenagers they truly were.  Kimarah smiled wickedly, she had received the response she was looking for.

"A cruel injustice for our leader!  She has been proclaimed a dog killer!  It has been said that she cut off its head! But we all know the truth, we all know the dog was dead before she removed its skull!  It was already dead! A trifle thing, my pack brother's and sister's, a trifle thing indeed. . . for who cares really, if a young teenage girl wishes to cut the heads off of things if they're already dead?  Tell me?!  What's the harm in that?"

She waited for answer but none came.  Just dog eyes and white teeth.

"Our ceremonial skull has been taken from us, along with our leader! What is the pack to do when it is surrounded by all of its enemies? When its heroes are fixed with muzzles and silenced like tenacious pit bulls?! When its usual meeting grounds have been ransacked and defiled by deviants in the night?  When we have to hide here, amongst the brush like we're EYESORES. . . or something?  Like. . . like. . . aww come on, you know!"

TEEN WOLF DISAPPOINT.

The pack was hanging on her every word, growing more and more intense with each utterance of the travesties their people had been forced to endure thanks to the majority of non-believers void of any dog genes whatsoever.  Kimarah had built up her dogs, and now it was time to toss them a piece of raw meat; it was time to let them loose on a world of nothing but tail-less upright walkers. You could see their anguish.  They were practically drooling.

"Well, of course my fellow brothers and sisters, we must go over there and free our leader from her captivity!  Show them all that they claim us to be, but rather rational beings, human in form and descendants of a long line of wolves."  Barks of content.

"In regards to our ceremonial skull, we can walk along the highway and look for dead dogs so that we may lop off their heads like a well tuned guillotine!"  With that she raised her arm, and the werewolves came out from their thicket with teeth snarling, content that they had not been seen and their meeting had been unnoticed.

But they were wrong.

Through the magnified glasses of his father's binoculars Justin Dingleberry viewed four--no--five--no--six 'werewolves' emerging from the thicket like a couple of silly garden snakes.  He smiled.  Gleaming glass eyes and gleaming pearly whites.  That was Justin Dingleberry.  He handed them over to one of his clan made up of a collection of Seniors from the very same high school.

They had taken no interest in the Crimson Blood's initially.  And then it got out that Wolfie Blackheart killed a dog via decapitation.  After a look in the dictionary, the crew knew that this was just a fancy word for cutting a head off.  It really pissed em off.  I mean it really got their goat.  They loved dogs.  In fact Walter Sewergland had a rottwieler and when no one was around he would fuck it in the ass, he loved dogs that much.  The dog didn't seem to mind.  It was surprising really, from a dog with such a nasty reputation.

It reminded Walter that he should never get his balls cut off.

"Gotcha," Justin said.

They spied the 'werewolves' who ran Indian file along the sidewalk, alive with the feeling that perhaps they were doing something that was actually important.  Something worth talking about.  Something worth remembering. . .  And yet their target, the home, was already blowing up on its own. Turmoil squeezed through the cracks in the form of muffled screams and broken dish ware.  Mrs. Buglefish had tackled Amanda Pigguts; an action which surprised everyone.  Not many thought she had it in her. The following scuffle had sent the two into the potluck table. It went to the floor in a crash of casserole and sliced meats and half eaten cakes. It was a mess soon to be devoured by Houston, the family dog in just under 0.03 seconds.  When initial shock evaporated, onlookers convened, and pulled the two grown women from one another, still kicking and fighting like two alley cats.

FUCK YOUEZ

"I'll get you!  I'LL BLOODY GET YOU!"  Buglefish said.

And outside walk the walk came a pack of snarling werewolves.  Behind them, their potential murderers.

"You small old woman you. . . You think you know so much. . . I'LL BURY YOU!"

She got up and pushed her way through the party, like a running back muscling through tackles for the big game winning touchdown.  But she didn't stop, she kept going.  She stopped at the back door to throw it open just as the pack had reached the fence to the yard. . . and behind them Justin Dingleberry and his boys were not far behind.

Mrs. Buglefish reached the steps but was tackled from behind, her glasses squirting out onto the field like a fumbled pig skin.  Her mouth ate dirt, and her nose sniffed the smell of freshly cut grass, and dog shit. She lay there, sprawled out on the ground, her mouth opening and closing like a fish gasping for air.  When she caught her breath she promptly used it to spew out a torrent of curses and foul language.

The gate to the yard opened wide, and through it came 6 teen werewolves, lead by Kimarah Nightfang. . .

Next came Justin and his boys. . .

Everyone now, was on stage.

The Crimson Blood Pack descended upon their leader, who seemed not to notice all that was going on around her.  Her head was down, her butchered hair covering her eyes in places, and she seemed to be stroking a small brown animal in her lap.  Upon closer inspection it was revealed to be her dog tail, wrapped around her waist and resting gently upon her lap.

Her pack surrounded her. . . and then Justin and his boys surrounded them.  The parents seemed to busy fighting amongst one another to even notice.

Them fightin' words.

Justin had taken down a wolf by his knee, and was now pummeling his face into grape jelly.  Others were scuffling too, and poor Wolfie Blackheart stood cowering in the corner of the yard, up against the fence, her escape hindered by that damn dog chain she had for so many years willingly wore and paraded around with, like a dog dignitary.  Kimarrah went down as well, her face drowning in a sea of grass.  The parents they too were struggling with one another, and all the neighbors had come out to watch.

The next five minutes were a blur.  Noses were broken.  Blood was spilled.  Hair was ripped from its roots and clothing was ripped from its owners.  Chaos rang out through the cold air of San Antonio that day, it would be the talk of the town for many years to come.

"YOU CUNT!  I'LL KILL YOU."  Mrs. Buglefish screamed.

--BANG--

The shot rang out and the scene paused, for a brief instant.  The gun was held by Sheriff Jacob Stinkysnatch, a Colt .45 to be exact, still smoking after discharging the bullet straight into the night sky.  It was a formidable weapon, one he had yet to ever fire when pointed at a person.  The gun itself did plenty of talking, no need for bullets.

"ENOUGH!"  Sheriff Jacob shouted.  "E-fucking-nough!  I've had just about enough of this werewolf business.  You-you-you-you-and-you-and you" he had picked out the teen werewolves.  "You aren't werewolves.  You're just teenagers.  Dumb, dumb, confused teenagers.  Your parents made you. There's nothing dog like about you, except that you all deserve some good discipline.  Go to your homes, and when you do, take a good look at yourselves.  Look what all of this has gotten you.  Don't dare for a second assume your victims, because quite frankly YOU WERE ALL ASKING FOR IT, dressing like that.  Especially here.  Don't you know this is a cowboy state?  Now get the hell out of here, you're a few years from becoming a bunch of furries for God's sake."

They walked by defeated, like students sent off to detention.  Sheriff Jacob Stinkysnatch clipped of their tails, one by one as the walked by, and wasn't having any of it.  He ignored protests.  He ignored sniffles and stifled outcries.

"And you!"  He pointed at Justin Dingleberry.  "And I suppose you think yourself to be some sort of Van Helsing, eh?  Well you're not.  You're simply a dumb bully who, whether he knows it or not, will have to start at the bottom rung of the ladder coming out of high school.  Just like everybody else. . . Or I suppose you have some lofty ideas about becoming a college man?  Well you forget that.  You're stupid.  You and your boys are just a bout as stupid as those other kids who believed themselves to be werewolves.  In fact your even more stupid and small.  In fact, some of you look like dog fuckers."

Walter Sewergland blushed.  He had been picked out by a man of the law.  Suddenly being a cop was appealing to him.

"Now get out! All of you!"

Justin and his boys left just as the teen werewolves had, awfully depressed.

He turned to the parents, the 'grown ups.'

"And you!"  He shouted.  "You're the worst of all.  How could you all come to this?  You're suppose to be mature, there's suppose to be some wisdom up in those heads of yours, not hot air!  Fighting like school yard boys, and for what?  Over what?  Trifle animosities over Davy Crockett Casserole?  And Mrs. Buglefish, for the record, it is the opinion of this Sheriff that your casserole is horrible."

Mrs. Buglefish scoffed.  Disdain filled her mouth, so much so that she felt the need to spit.

"Fighting over your children?  Fighting over their need to feel like werewolves?  Sure this is retarded, but one must understand that they're going through a tough time, just like we did.  So what if they want to think they're werewolves. . . As an officer of the law I can say there are a whole lot WORSE things your kids could be doing. . . A whole lot worse.  Now get yourselves inside and start acting like civilized ADULTS!"

"And you all. . ."  He address the onlookers, on their porches shivering in their pajamas.  "Go back inside!  The shows over!"

And what of Wolfie Blackheart?  Well she was totally forgotten, for days in fact. . . She was left out there in the yard chained to the fence, alone only to say:

"Hello?"

"Hello?"

"I'm ready to come inside now. . ."

But the only answer she got back were the crickets, playing her a love song.

Right here is where I would explain myself.  But I don't need to, you see I used a literary device.  I spoke through the Sheriff to say what I really meant.  Don't you feel foolish now.  All them wasted words for the real thing to come at the end?  Well you shouldn't.  Words are good.  They're good for you, really.

He was just my puppet, the Sheriff.

They're all my puppets...

And I'm getting tired of putting on puppet shows no one goes to see.

Maybe the show needs work?

Maybe the audience needs work?

Either way I'm talking to myself.  But I like talking to myself: at least the conversation is good.

And I must be drunk, I'm feeling mean.

Nonetheless, iR declares Teen Werewolves sadly retarded, as in their wake all that is left is shame and tears.

love,

iR