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Lycanthropes Anonymousby Joseph J. Christensen
At the rundown SpringHeel Mall outside Atlanta behind a door marked "Private," at the back of a storefront marked in gold letters, Barmun and Whaleys: Monsters of the Mallway Circus and Freak Show, a group of people aligned in a circle watched a tall, thin man with hair the color of cigarette smoke talk in an animated fashion.
“Werewolf, schmarewolf. Much better to say ‘Ly-can-thrope,’ rhymes with, ‘I’ll-rip-out-your-throat.’ Lycanthrope, baby, that’s what I am. You see me coming down the street, you better get to the other side. I am dangerous. I fear no one. To kill me, you need a silver bullet and they don’t sell those at Wal-Mart.
I love being a Lycanthrope, but it can be tough. You all know what I’m talking about. My ex couldn’t take the late night carousing, hanging out with my home-pack, coming back stinking of blood. She just got tired of it. She wanted me to spend more time at home, go shopping with her, go to the movies, play with the kids, you know, be a regular guy. It’s hard being a regular guy when the moon is up, your skin is itching, and you hear your pack howling somewhere in the night.
When I was young, life was so much easier. On the weekends, I’d wear my fur out, raise hell with my home-pack, then sneak back into the house in the A.M. when my parents were asleep. We’d smoke wolfbane and go out to a trailer-park, rock the trailers back and forth howling and screaming, “I’ll huff and I’ll puff and I’ll blow your house in,” jumping on roofs, shredding metal and poking our heads inside “Hello we’re with ATT, we understand you may have a service problem.” People would run out screaming, sometimes even shoot at us, buckshot usually. We didn’t care. The buckshot would bounce right off. Those were the days.
Back in school on Monday, I’d sit at the back of the class with the other Lycs in my home-pack just waiting for class to end and talking about what we going to do to the jocks and nerds. Little was expected of me back then.
When I got older, started a family, went to work, I tried to be normal, human, but my wild side kept building up inside me, like it was to bust out. You know? I couldn’t hold it back. At first, I would “do fur” only when my wife was out, but before I knew what hit me, I had a four or five fur-a-day habit.
I’d do some fur early in the mornin’, you know, run around the neighborhood scaring cats and small dogs, digging holes in lawns, tearing up ornamentals, maybe catching a squirrel and eating it, you know, kids stuff. After awhile, even that wasn’t enough. During my lunch-break at work, I’d go out to the park, scaring joggers and old ladies, knocking over garbage cans, peeing on the homeless, stealing pretzels from the pretzel guy.
My fur habit got so bad that I’d actually do fur in the car on the way to the park and then do more on the way back to work, blasting “Born to Be Wild” with the windows down, slobbering on the seats and on myself, running people off the road, going through red lights, cursing people who drove too slow. A total menace to society. I would get back to work sweaty and smelling like a wet dog. My co-workers would glare at me, judging me, but I didn’t care. I was too far gone.
In the afternoon, I would go into the bathroom at work and do some fur in the stall just to feel the rush of adrenaline; then go out all night running through the darkness with the boys and howling at the moon. I didn’t want to accept having to be a father, a husband. I couldn’t bear the responsibilities, the drudgery, of being human.
I loved being a Lycanthrope, being wild, on the outside lookin’ in, having the attitude, the swagger. Feeling invincible. I think you all know what I’m talking about, right? But my wife, she didn’t understand. She finally had enough.
The divorce was hard on my son, little Lonnie, but even that didn’t wake me up. You’d think I would’ve learned something from that. No, not me. I still wouldn’t admit that I had a problem. I was hiding inside my fur, couldn’t face who I had become, couldn’t face the fact that I loved being a Lycanthrope more than I loved being human, even more than being a father.
My turning point finally came last year. My son and I were out trick or treating on Halloween. I went as myself, of course, and my son was dressed as a doctor. I was having a great time scaring kids in the neighborhood, tearing up lawn decorations, shredding ornamentals, shot-gunning m&m’s and raisinets then throwing up on people’s lawns and making a general nuisance of myself. After awhile, I noticed that my son wouldn’t look at me and was keeping his distance. I asked him what was wrong.
He was crying. ‘Dad, you’re embarrassing me. Stop embarrassing me! You’re not scary. You’re just sad.’ Then he ran on ahead, away from me. Man that hurt worse than anything I have ever felt in my entire life!
I had no idea my son was embarrassed by me. The idea of losing him, of losing his respect and love was too much to bear. Even a Lycanthrope has to grow up sometime and realize there must be a balance between being human and being a wild, hell-raising, foaming at the mouth, bone-crushing, jugular-popping Lycanthrope. The next day I came out here to the Mall and signed up for treatment in this program, Lycanthropes Anonymous.” There was applause from the small group. “It’s been a long slow road, but thanks to this place and my sponsor, I am now down to one fur a day. My name is Lonnie. I am a Lycanthrope. It has been three hours since my last fur.”
“Vell done Mr. Chaney. Maybe Vee try mixed group next Aye?”
“Thank you Dr. Van Helsing. I’d like that.”
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© Christensen