Friday Night Bites

All Bark

The nights are getting longer and the forests a little darker. For the next few weeks I'm going to be bringing you what I like to call "Friday Night Bites" short stories, like Deluge, about being bitten by various creatures. Enjoy! Our first one takes aim at one of the most popular biters in monster mythology: the werewolf!

Two men sat in the smoke of a roadside bar, each with an empty shot glass. 

"King of the North American werewolves," said the shorter of the two, a young man red from a long day under the summer sun. He wore a dusty construction vest and beat blue jeans. As far as construction grunts went, he was a little too handsome for the job, the sort of wide-eyed kid who still had big dreams and ambitions, unlike his companion.

"A thousand warriors at his call," his friend agreed, rolling back his sleeves. He looked over the bright vest, dusty hair and twinkling eyes of the younger man and sighed. "You stink, Gav. Couldn't have hopped in the shower first?"

"Didn't want to miss the show," Gav replied, ignoring grunted disapproval. "Shame, King Mehki getting himself hunted down like that. Middle of a piss, I hear. Can you imagine, Al?"

Al shook his head. "Nothing's sacred no more."

"Now his son's in control. Eighteen years old. Little asshole gets born into wealth, and good folks like you and me are out here in the sun workin' ourselves into skin cancer."

Alan set his elbow on the dingy counter and twisted toward Gav. "Lower your voice," he said wearily. "'Fore he orders me to be killing you for insolence—"

"Don't think he knows that word. Probably hasn't gotten far enough through a high school English class," Gav hissed, turning his glass in his palm.

"You know well as I do that kid got private schooling. Even if he didn't know the word, what's it matter?"

"You're right," Gav said. "He doesn't need an education to bark orders at people."

Alan ran his hand over his face and hurriedly waved the bartender, a sprightly young woman named Beth, for another round. "All the same, he's come to see Emily's little girl, not you. You trying to ruin her chances at escaping this life?" 

"No," Gavin grumbled, downing another shot. He turned his glass upside down on the bartop and pushed himself around to face the door. "She won't be happy with him. She deserves someone willing to work his tail off to give her the world."

Alan raised his eyebrows. "I think you're in the wrong profession if you were planning on doing that."

"Why do you think I've missed the last few hunts, eh? I've been taking night classes." Gavin flashed a pearly smile and plucked the hem of his construction vest. "Gonna be a lawyer in a couple years. Gonna be sitting at bars a lot nicer than this one, with shirts a lot nicer than ours, I reckon. No offense, man."

"Just promise me you won't be doing anything stupid tonight, alright?"

"I promise," Gav mumbled, but Alan saw he was distracted.

The older man undid the top two buttons on his shirt and adjusted his sleeves. 'Dress nice for the new king' insisted his wife Wanda (bless her soul for putting up with a sorry dresser like himself for twenty years). The meeting was in a rundown bar for werewolves. Humans and other denizens of the night were welcome, but it was the sort of rundown, sketchy  establishment that you didn't visit unless you were invited. Alan, though a staple here, was the only one dressed like he was meeting royalty. He stuck out like a sore thumb in his pressed grey slacks and lavender button down.