If you can believe it or not, I can write about things other than wolves. Unfortunately, this will not be a demonstration of that rare talent (please refer back to such tales as What A War Does and The White Wire Sings for examples).
A fine chap and disk jockey under the nom de plume Detective Wolfman posted something that reminded me of a hazy synthwave fever dream idea I had in high school: a werewolf cop, but played dead straight. None of that neo-grindhouse Wolfcop/Kung Fury comedy crap. Genuine, straight-from-the-heart 80s action.
The second he said “now is the time,” out popped this. No apologies, no excuses, hell, no proofreading. I need to start writing for fun more often, and Universe of the Astounding will be come the local dispensary of this kind of fiction. A dumping ground for first drafts that can later be collected (and proofed) for publication proper seeing as most people prefer actual books.
Enjoy!
The slap of the windshield wipers cut like the claws of his hands as he clutched the steering wheel, the stressed leather of his harness boot grunting as the throttle dropped. Not even lycanthropy could override Officer Cain Martin’s sense of duty or justice as he saw the thugs tear away in their weaselly crotch-rocket bikes. Fortunately, Cain was a Charger man, his black beauty now a shock of a shadow on neon streets, the mist off the lake blanketing the city he served.
He could feel the footwell’s metal bend as the needle climbed to 95; his cue to shift. He wasn’t used to this newfound strength, nor the half-grafted primeval instincts colliding with his once well-adjusted mind. In fact, the only thing he was used to was the feral snarl on his face at the sight of the killers he hunted day and night. Like man, like beast came the thought before fading away into blind wolven anger.
The snarl ripped into a devilish smile on his snout as the muscle car was nipping at the crooks’ tailpipes. It was all up to that fine-tuned V8 now. If only you had my teeth, babe, he snickered in his mind. With a final thrust, the Dodge leapt on her prey, knocking both gangsters off their bikes. He couldn’t even remember the crime by now, only that they were the ones behind it. The tumble of one’s bike dealt the killing blow, the tire coming down on the head in a split second. The other was Cain’s.
The Dodge screamed, tires smoking as she came racing for the felled felon. She stopped an inch from the bastard’s bike as he vainly tried crawling away. The tinted windows were about to give the man the shock of his life.
Out stepped Cain, leather jacket and flared jeans billowing in the evening’s breeze, black fur misted by the fog, with his black Aviators hiding blood-red eyes, shielding them from the otherwise blinding blend of purples and blues radiating off the dead storefronts and street lamps.
Somehow, the thug, pale skin cut up by the fall, hadn’t had a heart attack. He just started screaming and crying and doing all the other shit pussies usually do when faced with their death-dealer. And what a death he had planned.
Cain snatch the gangster up with one gloved hand and took a bite, right in the neck where he had gotten it all those years ago. The dropped the man to the ground and let the black magic run its course. The man writhed, growled, howled in pain as the fur ripped through his pores and his body contorted and stretched. It was midway through the fun that the Beretta was drawn and a single shot fired.
A single, silver bullet.
Thank God for magazines, Cain thought as he strolled back to his metal beast, and drove over the dust of his evening’s prey.