A Canadian Werewolf in New York

Chapter Twenty

What could I do but oblige?

Put yourself in my lupine shoes.  A large sweaty mobster-type man is aiming a handgun at you at point blank range.  At least one of the two other of his colleagues in the vehicle is armed, and, you notice, is also training a gun on you.

In my shoes, I’m thinking that you would also get in.

But also in my shoes, where only seconds ago your desire was to follow these guys back to their base of operations, hopefully the location where they were keeping the kidnapped man you were trying to save in the hopes of winning points with your ex-girlfriend, you might also feel a sense of relief.

I tried to suppress a smile as I raised my hands high in the air.  “Okay, okay.  I’ll get in.”

“This isn’t a fucking stickup,” Mr. Sweatypants grumbled.  “Put your fucking hands down and get your ass in the car.”

I lowered my hands and stepped toward the vehicle.  Mr. Sweatypants slowly slid himself back on the seat to allow me space to get in.

As I inched my way into the back seat of the Cadillac, I felt my eyes begin to water.  Being in this proximity with Mr. Sweatypants in such a tightly closed space was definitely not pleasant for someone with my highly attuned sense of smell.

I glanced at the two men in the front seat, figuring that, even with normal human scent, it must also be unbearable for them.  But there was no indication that the smell had bothered them at all.  Reading their emotive scent and heartbeats, they were definitely anxious and angry -- but I couldn’t register any sort of the disgust I knew the bitter odor was generating in me.

They must be used to it, I figured, and did my best to gulp in one more breath of “fresh” air from outside the car.    

“Close the fucking door!”

I obliged, then turned back to look at Mr. Sweatypants.

He sat there, gun still pointed at me and shook his head as the car peeled away. 

“Fuck,” he muttered, shaking his head.

Quite an articulate gentleman, I mused, almost saying that out loud.  What the hell was coming over me, I wondered, almost making a wise ass comment in such a perilous situation?

Immediately, that whole aspect of the young teenage Peter Parker fighting seriously scary bad guys as Spider-Man all made sense to me.  I think it was explained somewhere in the comic books, but given the gawky teenager’s nervousness about the whole situation, he cracked wise when fighting the bad guys, not because he was a confident and cocky hero -- but more as a way to release the nervous tension that coursed through him.    

I completely understood that.

Sure, I had superhuman wolf-enhanced strength, agility and senses.  But I was no superhero, and despite how I’d been acting and reacting to today’s events, I was simply far from comfortable with everything that was going on.

Nosirree, I was more comfortable sitting in my Algonquin hotel room with a cup of coffee in hand and writing a fictitious story about some crime caper involving a reluctant hero than I was actually being that reluctant hero.

Yet here I was, in the middle of something I found particularly scary.

And, of course, I was dealing with it by cracking wise -- if not aloud, like Spider-Man, then at least in my head.

In any case, I wasn’t finding that it was making me any more comfortable.  I was still quite nervous about the gun pointing at me from about two inches away from my chest.