Of course, he couldn't forget Michele.
He had no ill feelings toward her, but he was certainly going to
enjoy devouring her fine ass, even though he wasn't really a
cannibal. He'd be romantic about it. He'd tell her he loved her
first.
He reached back and touched the cut. It felt
almost healed. The one on his chest had faded to a red scratch.
Both cuts still hurt, but that was typical--the wounds went away
before the pain.
He wished he hadn't been
forced to reveal the full scope of his power. Unfortunately, though
being a werewolf made his life much easier and a lot more fun and
was quite honestly absolutely fucking fantastic, it did
not
allow him to bend
bars. He'd been a little worried--not too much, but a little--that
George and Lou would take him all the way to Tampa without giving
him a chance to escape. Ivan didn't know much about Mr. Dewey and
his crew, and though he was relatively certain that he could've
gotten away even after George and Lou made their delivery, it was
much better to be on the loose here.
He wondered if the werewolf element had made
it into the news, or if they thought it was just a regular old
human serial killer who'd cut up Diane. He loved the idea of some
hillbilly being interviewed: "Why, I saw it, and that thing, it was
half-man and half-beast! I ain't done seen nothin' like it in my
life, even when I've sucked down a couple quarts of my
county-famous moonshine!"
Ivan climbed down from the tree. Logically,
he knew that he should make a run for it and move to another part
of the world--again--but what was the point of being a werewolf if
you couldn't terrorize people? George had probably dropped a great
big loaf in his oversized underwear, but Ivan hadn't come close to
being satisfied with the thug's comeuppance.
He'd loved George's expression when he slid
that blade through Diane's silky neck. Fifty percent horror, fifty
percent guilt, mixed into a delicious concoction of misery. George
was sitting in that van right now, wailing "It was all my fault! It
was all my fault!"
Yeah, George, it sure as
hell was.
And this whole killing spree is going to be
your fault, too.
Ivan's shirt had fallen off
completely, though his pants had held up fairly well thanks to the
elastic waist. He could probably break into somebody's house and
steal a change of clothing without too much trouble, but, no, it
felt like the kind of afternoon where he should murder somebody
just for their clothes.
Murder them
slowly
.
Make them die a lingering, horrible,
excruciatingly painful death simply because they wore the same size
shirt as him.
He sat down next to the tree. It was a pretty
desolate piece of road, but three cars had driven by while he was
up there, so another one was bound to approach before too much
longer.
He wondered if any of his four-legged
friends were around. He closed his eyes and put out the call.
Nothing heavy-duty like before; just a mild little dog-call to see
if any showed up.
Ivan didn't have the
slightest idea how this power worked, whether he was sending out
some frequency that only dogs could hear, or if one of George's
guesses was right and it had something to do with his scent, or if
he could control dog brain waves, or whatever. Unlike the
transformations, which he'd mastered in a ridiculously short
timeframe--okay, eight years, but that was damn good for a
werewolf, since most of them
never
learned to control it--he still hadn't quite
figured out the whole dog thing. It was sort of like being able to
move a pencil with his mind, except that he didn't know if the
pencil was going to roll across the table or twirl up into the air
and poke out somebody's eye.
He sat there for about five minutes until a
small gray Schnauzer walked along the side of the road toward him.
No collar. He wondered if it was a stray.
He heard the engine of an approaching car.
Sometimes, things just worked out perfectly.
The dog looked at him and let out a sharp
bark.
"Fuck you," he told it. He continued to
concentrate.
The dog walked into the middle of the road
and began to happily move in the direction of the oncoming car.
Poor, poor doggie. Ivan
chuckled as the dog, its tongue hanging partly out of its mouth
like a complete moron, trotted along toward its doom.
I think I'll name you...Roadkill.
The car, a white sedan, came around the
corner. The driver swerved at the last instant, missing the
Schnauzer by the length of its stubby tail, and then careened off
the road.
The dog ran off.
Well, shit. He'd hoped to
see the dog get creamed
and
to disable the vehicle. Oh well.
Ivan stood up, jogged over to the car, and
opened the passenger-side door. The driver, a bald man who was too
young to be naturally bald, seemed shaken up but not hurt. He'd
been wearing his seatbelt. Smart lad.
"You okay?" Ivan asked.
"Yeah...stupid dog ran right in front of
me..." The man sounded kind of dazed. That wasn't any good. Ivan
wanted him fully aware of what was about to happen.
"Did you injure yourself?" Ivan asked. "Do
you need me to seek the services of a medical professional? If you
have one of those new cellular phone devices, I could probably call
for assistance." He climbed into the car next to the man, who
looked shocked at both Ivan's shredded pants and the fact that he
was getting into the car uninvited.
"I don't need--"
"Shut the fuck up," Ivan told him, pulling
the door shut. He gave him a wide smile, revealing his werewolf
teeth. "Spooooooky, huh?"
The man immediately reached for his door
handle. Ivan decided to go half-werewolf. The one bitch he had
about his lycanthropy was that he couldn't talk as a wolfman, so he
went for the not-quite-as-hairy, not-quite-as-muscular, but still
clearly wolfish and scary look. It was actually kind of
demonic.
The man screamed.
Ivan laughed at him, a low, sexy growl of a
laugh that the ladies found ever so alluring. Then he showed him
his claws. "You try to leave this car and these are going right
into you."
The man kept screaming, so Ivan said it
again, louder. Then he raked his claws across the man's chest.
"Shut up!"
"Oh, God, please don't hurt me!"
"I just
did
hurt you, dumb-ass. Do you like
your head?"
"What?"
"I said, do you like your head? It's not a
challenging question. Yes or no. Do. You. Like. Your. Head?"
"Yes."
"Then don't make me rip it off and drink from
it like a juice box, all right? What size shirt do you wear?"
"A...a large."
"I look better in a medium, but I prefer
large for comfort, so that'll work just fine. What's your
name?"
"What
are
you?"
"What the fuck do you
think
I am? A Martian?
Come on, buddy; I know you're scared, but think before you ask
stupid questions. Now apologize to me for wasting my
time."
"I'm sorry."
"Apology accepted. I asked you your
name."
"Dale."
"Like Chip and Dale? The squirrels?"
"Yes."
"Or Chippendales. Wow. Never thought of that
before. I wonder if it was intentional."
"I...I don't know."
"That's okay. I wasn't really asking. Chip
and Dale, I guess they aren't squirrels, are they? They're
chipmunks. Chip the Chipmunk. That's a pretty lame name for a
cartoon character when you take Dale out of it, don't you think?
The Disney writers weren't having a good day. Now it's my turn to
apologize to you--we're getting pretty far off the subject at hand,
which is your shirt size."
"Yes."
"Yes? What were you saying yes to? Were you
agreeing that I need to apologize to you?"
"No. I mean--I don't know."
"Why the hell would I
apologize to you? I don't owe you a thing, Dale. How dare you? I
mean, how
dare
you?"
"I'm sorry!"
"Oh, don't be so gullible, I'm just messing
with you. Clearly my whole Chip and Dale bit was wasting your time,
and I do owe you an apology, so from the bottom of my werewolf
heart, I'm sorry. Now let's talk about me ripping your guts
out."
Dale looked as if he wanted to say something,
most likely "What?" or "No!" or "Please!" but couldn't find his
voice.
"Oh, don't look so surprised," Ivan said.
"You knew I was going to kill you as soon as I turned into a scary
monster. Do you want to know why I'm going to do it?"
"I..."
"For your clothes. That's it. No other
reason. I'm going to end your life, all however many years of
it...how old are you?"
"Thirty-two."
"...all thirty-two years of it for your
shirt. And I don't even like your shirt. How does that make you
feel, Dale?"
Dale threw a punch at him. Ivan deflected the
blow with his palm with very little effort, then used the same hand
to grab Dale's wrist. Then, with the index finger of his other
hand, he slashed a line across the length of Dale's entire arm,
opening it up like a zipper. Dale, not surprisingly, screamed.
Sweet. Ivan had thought Dale might be
too paralyzed with fear to actually fight back, so this would make
things more interesting.
"Did that hurt? I hope so.
That's just a sneak preview, by the way. A tasty little sample of
the main attraction. I really feel sorry for you and the hellish
pain you're going to endure. I'm sure glad
I'm
not the one sitting here in a car
with a sadistic werewolf."
"I've got money!" Dale said.
"Lots?"
"Yes."
"How much?"
"Thousands."
"Here?"
"Not with me, but--"
"Sorry. You just failed to save your life.
Any other good bribes?"
"You don't have to do this!"
"I realize that. I like that it's
optional."
"I'll do anything." Dale finally succumbed to
tears. Ivan had expected that part to happen a bit sooner.
"Oh, now, Dale, there's no reason to cry. You
say you'll do anything. Would you...take a knife and cut out your
own stomach?"
"What?"
"If I gave you a knife, would you cut out
your own stomach? I wouldn't make you eat it or anything--although,
come on, let's be honest, it would be pretty cool to watch somebody
eat his own stomach. I'd just make you cut it out. Do that and I'll
let you go."
"I can't do that."
"Then don't say shit like 'I'll do anything'
if you don't mean it. Would you slash your own throat? Would you
jam a stiletto heel in your heart? Would you give yourself brain
surgery? I hate it when people throw out offers that they're not
prepared to honor."
Dale began to sob.
"Where were you headed?"
"Home."
"To your wife?"
"No."
"Do you have a girlfriend?"
"No."
"Why not?
"I don't know."
"Is it because you're bald?"
"No."
"When did you last get laid?"
"I don't know."
"Liar. Somebody who looks like you knows
exactly how long ago it was. Tell me."
"Three weeks."
"Hey, that's not so bad. I thought it would
be six months or something like that. Was she a prostitute?"
"No."
"One of those Internet booty calls?"
"Sort of."
"Sort of? Details, please."
Dale sniffed. "We met online, but I'd seen
her in person a couple of times."
"Gotcha. Do you need a Kleenex or something?
Your nose is all snotty. You wouldn't want your hot Internet sex
bunny to see you like this, would you?"
"No."
"Are you going to see her again?"
"No."
"Because you broke up, or because I'm going
to murder you?"
"We weren't really together."
"She was a hooker, wasn't she?"
"I said no."
"Was she a skank?"
"No."
"Do you love her?"
"No."
"Do you love anybody?"
"I don't know."
"Ah, so you
do
love somebody. Well,
Dale-without-his-Chip, let's discuss this. Just remember that the
longer you keep me engaged in conversation, the longer you get to
live, unless I hear a car coming and have to gut you. You never
know, the details of your love life might be so fascinating to me
that I
forget
to
murder you. Wouldn't that be nice? I'd be walking home and think
'Oh, how about that, I completely forgot to murder Dale! How
forgetful of me!' You'd enjoy that, right?"
"Yes."
"Who do you love?"
"Karen."
"Does she love you back?"
"No."
"Are you sure?"
"I don't know."
"So who is this darling Karen?"
"Co-worker."
"Is she hot?"
"Yes."
"See, that probably explains why the
attraction isn't mutual. Is she blonde, brunette, redhead...?"
"Black hair with red streaks."
"So you're into the dyed hair thing, huh?
Nice. Does she have any tattoos?"
"One."
"One that you know about, right?"
"Yes."
"Does Karen live around here?"
Dale vigorously shook his head. "No."
"Are you sure? You're not just saying that to
protect her from me?"
"She doesn't live here."
"Well, obviously she doesn't
live
here
. The
question was whether or not she lives
around
here."