We headed home. And although one thought raced through our minds, we barely spoke. “We were werewolves,” the air seemed to say, quivering as it did. “We were motherfucking werewolves.” We’d only been gone three nights, but somehow the town’s population seemed much smaller than it was.
Time went on and we saw less and less of Roger and Fish, until eventually they became just two more meatbags waiting for death. It happens sometimes. Werewolves just quit being werewolves like part-timers in department stores that don’t give two-weeks’ notice before leaving. I heard that Fish got married, had four kids, and is now working at a company that makes bathtoys for children.
Roger, who would always snack on squirrels and rabbits, saying “Dog can’t live off man alone!” now works at a pet store selling pet food. Some of the gerbils go missing sometimes but I have a hard time believing he’s eating them.
Darwin stayed a werewolf. He terrorized the county with me, and although it was deeply disturbing, he continued his habit of gutting his victims and hanging up the remains. Last week, he was on an almost-empty train and got hungry. Just ahead of him, two men were sleeping. Darwin, who had always done his best to make sure his victims didn’t die until he let them, didn’t see that the other
passenger had a silver-cast knife. He was stabbed in the throat. He died almost instantly.
Although I hadn’t seen him in more than ten years, I know I’ll miss getting high and listening to “Teenage Wasteland” while eating campers and howling at the moon.
I don’t know anyone who has friends like we did when we were werewolves. Does anyone?