Posts tagged Werewolf

A fact which has baffled me for quite some time is how Vancouver’s public transit system continues to win awards and gain recognition for its efficiency and superior design when, in fact, the entire system is like an alternate dimension where everyone both smells terrible and has an extra-keen sense of smell. Busses always crammed to capacity, you enter the system, and you immediately experience everyone else’s mood. Like Purgatory: Not quite Hell, on the way to Hell: Grumpy trains and cranky buses. Each stop is a hot spot, each station is a ghetto.

And if you think riding the bus is bad, you should try driving one.

Yes. That is correct. I am a Bus Driver. I know the title doesn’t sound as exciting as Sky Diver or Storm Chaser but believe me, it’s just as risky: What with the Tough-guys, the Crazies, the Terrible-drivers, the Teenagers, the Angry-moms with the Angry-babies and in their stupid strollers. My life is literally on the line every shift. Every time I step onto that Godforsaken Bus. And I have to sit in the most dangerous seat.

However, it is a union job, with benefits, so it affords me the luxury of living right Downtown, in Yaletown to be specific. I have a beautiful two-bedroom loft with walnut flooring, floor-to-ceiling windows, modern appliances out the wazoo, and it’s southwest facing for gorgeous sunsets on the balcony. We usually stay out there until the sunset becomes a crimson red—the colour of blood—when it matches our wine.

Yes, altogether, I suppose I’m quite a lucky guy.

Now, with all of these attributes: the secure employment, the great salary, the elegant piece of prime real estate; Also, I’m well-read, cultured, and I have been graced with both height and a handsome visage: A square jaw, a strong nose, charming eyes and healthy, manageable hair: I am sure you would be hard pressed to believe that I had an absolutely hell of a time finding a mate. You see, I am what is commonly referred to in folklore as a Werewolf. And the problem is, as you would have probably guessed, there aren’t exactly packs of my kind running around Vancouver in heat. In fact, the only ones I had known of, other than myself, were my parents. And I wasn’t about to pull an Oedipus Rex.

Life was rough back then. You see, it is impossible that I ever get along with a woman. Though interspecies relationships are not unheard of, at the very least the whole Immortality issue could be a thing: Think of how many human wives a Werewolf would go through in his lifetime. He would overtake Mickey Rooney with ease.

I must admit I have dated the fairer species. Sometimes I even thought it could work: There were some passionate times, and glorious, magical love affairs but, of course, for a few days each month, things would get complicated. O those mysterious days which have baffled mortals for centuries. The cursed conundrum!—Running on a cycle which you can see from miles away, that you know is coming directly for you, hurtling at you like an iron wrench, but you are unable to move to avoid it. You follow me, don’t you?: A day or two before and after a Full Moon, like all Lycanthropes, I become quite a handful: I become cranky, irritable, aggressive, I develop an insatiable appetite, sexual frustration, nausea, and not to mention the bloating! Much like a woman on her period. But less irrational. Anyone who knows so will tell you: There is a tremendous difference between an actual Wowolf transforming into a giant flesh-eating beast by the power of the Moon, and a human woman suffering from a menstrual clinical psycho-lycanthropy.

No. It would never have worked with a woman. So, I am lucky beyond all rational thinking that I ever found Cinead. She was, and still is of course, a beautiful and scholarly Wo-wolf. Her family hails from Ireland, descendents of  Broccan the 12^th century Lycaeon King, 1135-1583. Something of a rebel, Broccan had feuded with Dracula for centuries. So, not only is Cinead smart, beautiful, and a bit of a firecracker, but she comes from money. Old money.

So, you see the problems I have faced in the Love department. And I can’t place the blame anywhere but on myself. Myself and what is naturally inside of me. My blood. This curse called Lycanthropy.

I am positive that you already have a general understanding of my kind and of our relationship to the Moon, so I’ll save you the biology lesson, but rest assured, it is real. My monthly cyclical “outbursts” are simply not compatible with women. Especially if it coincides with her menstrual cycle. Then all pure shit hits the fan—only it smells like cheap potpourri. No. Werewolves and women do not mix well.

But now everything is virtually picture perfect—A Werewolf needs his Wowolf, and vice versa. Why fight nature? At least we can relate to each other on the same level: We can be human form at the same time, and we can metamorph into night prowling, bloodthirsty carnivores at the same time. God wouldn’t have it any other way—It’s one of the first Commandments: Don’t play with your food.