One of my (many) New Year’s resolutions was to post on a regular schedule, say every other day. In the past, I have sometimes posted twice in one day, sometimes once a week. I decided on every other day because . . . well, because.
If I kept to that schedule, you would be reading this tomorrow, January 10, Tuesday. But I have to work tomorrow, from 1 till 9:30 p.m., and before that, I am taking my precious ‘Stang to Modica Bros. to track down the source of an annoying clank-clank-clanety-clank coming from the driver’s rear wheel. (I already took it to the dealer, and they claimed it was some sort of “wheel flex”; I am not disputing this, as I am not an ASE-certified mechanic, but seeing as how I have had this car for going on 3 years, and have not swapped out the original aluminum rims, and only had this problem after they replaced my worn Goodrichs with shiny new Pirellis . . . I only want a second opinion, which is my right as an all-consumin’, gas-wastin’, McDonald’s-eatin’ American.) The car’s running and stopping fine, but it’s a definite hit to my cool points when I cruise through a parking lot and passersby hear that Tin Man clank under the deep burble of the Flowmaster American Thunder exhaust.
All right, so. After work tomorrow night, I am going to relax with a glass of lemonade and Jack Daniel’s, and possibly play Call of Duty: Modern Warfare 3, or watch season 1, disc 5, of Supernatural, which means no blogging. Which is a long-winded excuse for showing off the prologue to my second novel-in-progress, and yes, it’s a sequel to Bulletproof Werewolf. Cut me some slack. I’m trying to build an empire here. I want to see my characters on TV, a desire deepened by the Dexter bobble head toy I saw at Suncoast the other day.
I change back. The short, bristly hairs that cover me when I’m a werewolf retreat under my skin. The blood that coats them is left behind on my flesh. The blood is still warm. I flex my now-human hands. The blood on them is sticky.
There’s blood in my mouth. I spit out red saliva over and over, but I still taste it. It doesn’t taste how blood tasted to me before I was bitten. Back then, it tasted like copper.
Now, it’s sweet and tastes faintly of meat, another satisfying quality to the werewolf side of me, a side that I had thought was small. But I now realize it is very big. And very strong.
I look around me, finally, at the abattoir I made, and I scream. And even though I don’t mean for it to happen, that scream turns into a howl. I howl in rage and misery and all I smell is blood, blood, blood