I WAS A TEENAGE VAMPIRE WIZARD LYCANTHROPE Part II

NOW WITH EVEN MORE WORDS! (psst, Raqonteur, some are for you!)


CHAPTER 3: Dude, Were's My Wolf?

    "Nothing like a full moon to stir up a little romance, right babe?" said Steven von Hacklebacher to his undoubtedly soon-to-be conquest of the night, the gorgeous and richly upholstered Gloria Holder, whom Steve was hoping for a little rumble with in the rumble seat of his vintage Packard.  Gloria snuggled a little closer, but said nothing for a long moment.
    Unfortunately it was a little too long a moment as a split second before Steven would have gotten the answer he was expecting to his implied proposition, the shadowy figure that had been observing the amorous couple from a nearby shrubbery since they'd pulled into the prime, sure score parking spot atop Lovers' Hill a few minutes before unexpectedly leaped out without warning, and...

As the author of this story seems to have exploded, we offer the following as compensation.

    The new planet seemed to be in every way a prime prospect for colonization, but, mused Survey Commander Aldor Fratz, so had that similarly promising planet now known to the hideously mutated and insane descendants of the colonists so joyfully ensconced there as Earth.  Still, he further mused, this world had no overlarge moon to gradually drive crazy any inhabitants with its baleful light, nor was it likely its hollow core, if any, was infested with--
    Had he not been too busy being reduced to a cloud of vapor, along with his ship, two crewbots and their pet phlorp, Stinky, Aldor Fratz would probably have mused on the irony of said reduction being caused by a meson disruptor ray fired a split second before from the small moon that both he and his vessel's sensitive instruments had failed to notice because they no longer existed when the moon, actually a space station, de-cloaked.  
    Despite decades of research following the close of the resulting war, which left the planet not only moonless but reduced to rubble the largest chunks of which were no bigger than a compact pleedle, it was never learned why the planet's underground inhabitants had built such a station, much less conceived it, in light of even the remotest possibility of intelligent life other than themselves having never been so much as mentioned in any of their mythological, religious, philosophic or scientific writings, which even more curiou--

   "Nothin' personal, chum," apologized Charles 'Chic' Charleston, as was his wont after killing someone, even someone he despised utterly, "but I really, really hate sci-fi crap, and yours was the crappiest."  He stood for a moment looking down on the slumped body of his latest victim, watching as the blood from the face-shattering exit wound caused by the .45 slug that had so abruptly ended the career of one of the most popular writers of science fantasy poured slowly through the well worn keys of his Remington portable.  "I'da done this job for free," Chic rumbled softly through clenched teeth as he holstered his well used but scrupulously cared for Colt Model 1911 pistol, and with at least half an hour to kill before the arrival of the Agency's clean up team, walked slowly over to the over stuffed wing chair over in the room's right rear corner, under a clock stopped at midnight, sat down with a sigh, and drew from his hip pocket a well thumbed copy of Black Mask and resumed re-reading his favorite International Agent story, Blue Harvest, in which the nameless Agent recounts his battle to clean up the corrupt town of Arsenicville.  Just as the Agent was chatting up the two-pro town's second most experienced pro, Darla, a pretty little Southern Belle offering great real estate at close out prices, there was a knock at the door.  Then suddenly a knock at the room's door, three loud, one medium, and two more loud, followed by a piercing whistle, by which time Chic was out of the chair and facing the door, crouched low with the heavy Colt pointed at the center of the three-panel door's center panel.
    "That you, Crunch?" He whispered loudly, not realizing it was an oxymoron.  He was pretty sure only his colleague Bill 'Crunch' Byrd knew that special signal knock, but he hadn't lasted 5 long years in the dangerous game of murder for hire by taking chances.  Any chances.  For two endless minutes and 10 not so endless seconds he crouched there on the grey carpet, three feet, five inches away from the door, the heavy automatic pistol gripped in his right fist getting heavier by the second, when the door began slowly to open.  "Crunch?"
    "No," cooed a velvet voice Chic knew well, "It's me."  Not bothering to correct her grammar, Chic stepped to the door, holstering the big .45 with practiced ease, but before his anxious fingers could catch the edge, the door opened wide and before him stood the most compelling coming attraction he'd ever seen: 

Barry Nelson, Sean Connery, George Lazenby, Sean Connery, Roger Moore, Timothy Dalton and that guy form Remington Steele ARE happy to have never been
Eon Phlegming's BOND JAMESBOND in
GOLDRAKER Coming Soon From OMG / Union Artists, produced, written, directed & edited by Jack Snyder, music by John Barry Gray, main titles song 'Ennui' performed by 1TuMany    

    "Want to take me?' purred Stella Fulmine, tossing aside the tattered one-sheet teaser she'd taken from the lobby of the theater 'cross the street, only to reveal that the evening gown she barely had on offered less coverage than the poster.
    "Baby, the popcorn's on me," sighed Chic. "I'll even throw in a all-day     
    
    "Sucker!" called Bobby Grimes as he watched the Italian grocer fall over his own feet trying to chase him.  To add insult to injury, Bobby took a huge bite of the crisp red apple he'd snagged from the display and threw it over his shoulder, inadvertently starting a chain reaction

    "...that in less than a week will reduce our planet to rubble," Prof. Katzman stated emphatically to his attentive audience, "unless we can find a way to neutralize the threat within that time."
    "But how?" demanded General Ankrum.  "So far all you and your team have come with is a name for the new element.  You're not even certain what size the largest chunks of rubble will be--not that it matters, it's just the principle of the thing--much less how to stop that damn--"
    "That, General, is precisely why I called this meeting," Katzman interrupted, "We have finally come up with a solution to the deleterious effects of Expandite."
    "Well?"
    "I'm almost embarrassed to say, it's so simple, and it was right under our noses all along." 
    "WELL?"
    "Really, you'll want to kick yourself when I tell you."
    "(censored)"
    "Water."  Prof. Katzman was all but deafened by the cacophony of forehead slapping and teeth gnashing from the scientific, civil and military authorities seated around the dais.  "Yes, it was so obvious that I'm embarrassed to say that we might never have thought of it had my lab assistant not decided to clean one of the samples we had vacuum isolated in hopes--"
    "Never mind all that, Katzman," cried the General. "We have to call the President at once and get going on this right the (fuck--oops, sorry! bleep) now!"
    And so, with only a day to spare, across the earthquake ravaged globe, millions and millions of liters of water began pouring into the caverns, fault tines, volcanoes and other openings through which the mysterious element had inexplicably emerged from its unknown subterranean layer and been introduced to the nitrogen which somehow caused the previously innocuous element to exponentially expand to rock shattering proportions.  
    Sadly, however, it turned out that in his elation over Earth's salvation, Katzman had not listened closely enough to his assistant's explanation of his accidental discovery, missing the fact that he had cleaned the sample with sterile water...

    The grizzled veteran editor silently laid the dog eared, half read manuscript down on the desk before him and rubbed his stubbled chin thoughtfully, while the young writer sitting across from him in a well worn straight back chair turned his battered porkpie in his hands, anxiously awaiting the pronouncement of the fate of his first professional submission.  "Well, Ike." the editor finally offered, "I've seen worse... tell you what, I've got a open slot in next month's Earth Shattering Stories' New Tremors column, if you can cut this down to 1200 words or so and fix up some the worst errors, like putting 'ite' on the name of an element.  Only pays a half cent a word, but it'll give you a little exposure--
    Ike Sturgeon stared in horror as a hole the size of .45 slug appeared neatly between Jack Bellcampe's eyebrows and the fly specked wall behind was splattered with the editor's blood and brains.
    "Nothin' personal, chum," apologized Charles 'Chic' Charleston even less sincerely than usual. "But I really hate sci-fi editors." With that, he stepped around the still staring Ike Sturgeon, placed the barrel of his brand new Browning automatic to the trembling writer's left temple, and growled, "And you, you little punk, you'll switch over to detective stories if you know what's good for ya."

The Case of the Lamentably Late Llama          
by Mason Holmes, based on an outline by Ike Sturgeon, originally published in True Detective Science Fantasy Fiction issue 3, June 2015

    There are those who make fun of those who talk of the 'friends' they've made on social media.  I did.  But not anymore. 
    My name's Moroboshi.  Oni Moroboshi.  Don't ask, it's an inside joke between me and myself.  The fence post told me to piss off.  I'm an artist and writer, for the most part retired.  Now I'm laid up with a .45 slug in the chest that almost retired me for good.  Almost.  It's just a good thing that my heart's as small as my wallet.  And on the wrong side.  For my would be assassin that is.  He's retired now, too.  For good.  I hope they have a good retirement plan in Hell.  Not to be judgmental or anything.
    It all started about 8 o'clock on the evening of February 24th, ironically my Birthday, or Mortality Awareness Day as I've called it since turning 50.  That was seven turns ago.  It was getting hot in the Oni den, so after putting Inflatable Ingrid away after trying a new shade of grey, a really blue one, I decided to cool off with a little net surfing.  As usual the first stop was my virtual Oni den, the site I'd set up a couple years back on deviantART--don't have a cow over it; it's just a place where artists and writers of all kinds are free to do their thing without being judged and share views on most everything, plus make extra money by offering commissions, which I don't cos I think it's cheap and nasty, like that budget colonoscopy--granted some of the Deviants, as DA members are called, are pretty sick-o; some of their Deviations, as DA submissions are called, make me want to puke, in fact, or tempt me to naughty thoughts, like those Lum DiD pics by bronx1287, and the Sailor Moon one I should be getting from erikson1 soon.  But anyway--
    Sorry, but I gotta answer the call of nature, which in the shape I'm in could take awhile, and that chunk of lead right on top of my left ventricle don't help any, but I'll be back as soon as I can.

Note from the editor's executive secretary, Ms. Sally Spinster:
    Oni fans, I know this will gravely disappoint both of you, but I must inform you that, for reasons the editor, Mr. Ernest Redpencil, doesn't feel like explaining at the moment, as he's 'on the ole ceramic circular file' dealing with issues of a private and personal nature, a large portion of this story has gone missing, and unfortunately Mr. Moroboshi neglected to create a back up, which, he explained, he fully intended to do, but was distracted by another, more urgent back up that in some way involved a 'lamentably late llama', presumably a reference to this story's title, and two people I think he said were named Schroedinger and Heisenberg, but I'm not certain, and someone called Tyson, who had apparently done something mean to Oni's favorite Disney character, though I always thought that was Lilo, who for some reason he calls 'my little Lolita', or Loli Pop., but as you know Oni has a very complex, contrary nature, and often refuses to give a straight answer to a simple question, like why he won't let me see his collection of 'tentacle pics', even though he knows I love squid and octopus.  When asked if he wouldn't mind trying to recreate the missing passages, he replied, somewhat enigmatically, from what he calls the Oni Throne, that he was too busy recreating an event that 'unlike most frills' I would likely never experience, involving, he grunted, the passage of an even bigger load...  
    Anyway, here's what remains of the story, and if you like it, leave some nice comments and maybe Oni will change his mind about not filling in the gap for us, but I can't promise anything.  If he doesn't, complain to that rascal Raqonteur, because Oni said he started it all, whatever 'it' is, and either way you should go visit Raqonteur's gallery because it's a really fun and interesting place, and not at all cheap and nasty, even if Oni says it is, but doesn't mean it, really. 

-eating bastards!"  With nothing else to say for the moment, I nipped smartly under the stair well, my shattered right hand barely holding its grip on the pistol grip of the HK I borrowed from the poor security guard who'd gotten between me and the hot lead fired by that stone cold killer 'Crunch', as he was called by his partner.  Short of breath, with perhaps only seconds to live, I had no time to pity the poor, dead slob, or the beautiful wife and two cute daughters, one resembling my sweet little Lolita, I'd seen in the well worn but neatly folded 8X10 he kept in his wallet, which I'd taken a few precious seconds of time to search for his Driver's License so I could send flowers to his funeral, assuming I didn't wind up attending my own.  Knowing I had at least five minutes before,