WOLVES ( a story i never finished cos i lost interest but still like some of the humour in there)

Ian is, was and always has been a fine and upstanding member of the community. He is 42 and a weed of a man with the drawn face of an almost life. Ian’s hair is thinning on top and has adopted the male pattern norm of combing what he does have in a side sweep over the top. Last year he attempted a moustache to give him that bit of visual character but it only sufficed to give him the look of an out of hours weather man. He dresses with complete negligence, a thrown together way where his aunt’s badly knitted sweaters mix with family hand-me-downs. He’s persistently lost in a sea of giant clothing or comparable to a high street escapologist in pants too tight and shirts that show the outline of every hair on his back.

Ian is a member of his neighbourhood watch, alas due to a fear of undefined shadows he would admit himself that he doesn’t quite like to look out his window at night. He likes to think that his neighbours are all watching his house at night though so keeps up with the meetings. He is also a volunteer on the weekends teaching recovering alcoholics how to spell again following their memory loss after years of abuse. Ian himself supplied five of the Advanced Speak and Spell units used for speech therapy. Although an unfortunate side affect of this gesture was that all the recovering alcoholics in his group now seem to be adopting the robotic tone of the educational toy.

Ian works at an immensely large drug testing company, he sits in a dank corner of the building crunching numbers. What the numbers are and mean I don’t know and would rather not know but suffice to say Ian is an analyst any more explanation than that I fear I would nod off myself as I tried to educate us all.

Ian is a proud man though, he is particularly proud of the fact that he has never littered, not one chewing gum wrapper not one bus ticket this is something he feels so ultimately proud of he feels he should mention to anyone.

Along with a collection of “interesting” sand from an assortment of coasts and his active membership of a civil war re-enactment society Ian subsequently is the centre of his own world. Ian is not social material, these are his topics of conversation a green effor,t a meaningless collection and an anal hobby. At every office party, at every family get together, at all possible occasions this is what he talks about, he is the party guest you avoid, he is the party guest you make fun of, he is the man in the corner with the bad tie and the expectant smile and as you pass to the buffet he’s just hoping you might chance a conversation with to him.

To add to his social and professional setbacks Ian is the personification of the Jeckyl/Hyde syndrome, only as far as that he is prone to transform into a beast like wolf creature capable of feats not practised by your common place analyst. This overwhelming power, this supernatural gift is only outweighed by his lack of want to partake in the super hero culture and/or monsterial rampaging due in such circumstances. Ian, although every night is transformed into the gargantuan embodiment of all that is nightmarish keeps his analyst low caste demeanour and stays in and watches the soaps. He has begun only now to venture from his suburban lair to frequent his own vice help group (WE and the BEASTS WITHIN). Ian found solace here unfortunately he was to find that the help group was not as literal as he had hoped but he gained acceptance here and friendship he could but hope for in the outside world…

Ian made friends with other “weirdoes” (Ian has now been discouraged from calling them that).

 Jeff, a merchant banker who had visited regression therapy and been transformed into a 16th century highwayman and has been verbally warned countless times for stealing jewellery from other members of WBW.
 Samantha, who although seemingly normal would inexplicably physically transform into Guisseppe an Italian pasta chef, every time anybody mentioned any kind of herb or seasoning. Both Guisseppe and Samantha are members of WBW although know relatively little of one another.
 Julie who is actually the local butcher’s mongrel dog but had wondered in looking for scraps one weekend and considering the abnormalities of the other members had mistakenly been signed up as a patient. She kept up her attendance, as there was normally a meat paste sandwich offering.
 Completing the group was Chris a redundant clown that had taken to beating up old ladies for their pension books.

The group was lead by their psychiatrist Peter… a quiet and unassuming gentle fifty something, doctorate by mail order but believes so much in what he does, so much that no one questioned his ability with the group. Unbeknown to Ian or any of the group, following one two many screenings of old gangster movies, beneath Peters calming exterior is the black heart of an exploitative villain he wishes to turn each of his patients into the scourge of the city, all for his own gain…

—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-——

Ian had been up all night, as usual the streetlights hadn’t come on. This kind of thing always made Ian nervous. If there were any more nights with children screaming, dogs barking and cars colliding into one another outside the house he doubted he’d be able to keep himself under control. He’d tried the numerical exercise Peter had given him but its only benefit had seemed to be that he got the fur and claws but without the rippling muscles and extra three feet in height. He made his first mental note of the day to consciously attempt a reverse of these factors as the extra three feet and rippling muscles could help his love life.

Breakfast consisted of dog biscuits with milk and sugar. A newly acquired taste with the only flaw that even the new anti dog breath brand of mouthwash he’d bought seemed to taint his exhalations for the rest of the day. He finished breakfast with a cup of Listerine anyway and hoped he’d masked the odour enough. As he left the house for work Julie was in his front garden she had been outside Ian’s house howling nearly all night. Ian made his second mental note to raise it in-group that she really wasn’t making any progress. He’d even tried lowering to her level and throwing a stick but she had ignored it in favour of licking his crotch. The dog biscuit breath wasn’t helping the cause none either and when he tried to shove her off his genitals she caught a whiff and took to licking his face. Since seeing his transformation into the wolf at group Julie had become so enamoured with him that there was barely a day passed now that she didn’t escort him to work. He couldn’t pretend he didn’t love the attention but she had a mental illness and he could not exploit that no matter how long it had been since he’d been with a woman. He thought to himself as soon as he managed the degrees of change with the counting exercise his luck with the ladies would be better but till then he could not submit to Julie’s charm even though her oral talents were shocking. He snapped back to he reality as Julie was now lapping at his crotch and he had a very visible damp spot in not the most appropriate of areas.

Julie followed Ian all the way to work and had nearly been hit by three cars while she chased his bus. Julie was making slightly better time than the No.7 to the Arfield Business Park and so as he got off Julie sat panting at him from the kerb and trotted across the car park at his heel like a crufts professional. At the last minute Ian fed her a dummy turn and made a dash for the security door, entered his door code and he was instantly free. Julie darted for the door anyway and made a heavy collision with the glass after the rebound and dazed recovery she sat whining at the door. Ian saw Steve from marketing approaching, briefcase in one hand and brandishing a half-eaten breakfast butty in the other. He reached the door and threw the butty to the dog. Steve made it through the secure door and as Ian attempted to chastise Steve for encouraging Julie’s obvious problem, was duly blanked. Ian made a further mental note not to be bothered by his colleagues’ ignorance and to be a little less hypocritical following his earlier fantasies.

It was a quiet day in the office, the chemical warfare virus, Floor 5 were cultivating hadn’t been ok’d for battle yet so Ian’s work was minimal he had only to secrete more funding from department alpha to department gamma gamma and he could go for lunch.

Ian had arranged to meet Doc Peter for lunch. He decided he couldn’t very well squeal on Julie for her continued canine behaviour when he himself was falling privy to exploiting it. Ian could but hope she wasn’t waiting for him out front if she followed him to Lunch and Peter saw they would both be in for extra therapy sessions.

( Peter had arranged for Julie to start an apprenticeship with a local newspaper after seeing her tear up an edition he too thought badly written. He’d called in a favour and if he saw her still running round on all fours and without the good suit he’d bought her too he’d be most disappointed. Ian thought that maybe Peter too harboured some feelings for Julie. )

Julie was nowhere to be seen when he exitted work, Ian and Peter had arranged to meet at a local pub “The Isle of Men” (it was supposed to be The Isle of Man but the sign writer had drawn three extra legs on the insignia so the pub changed its moniker too). Lunch past without real issue Peter was ever the cryptic with his endless questions and mysterious statements. Peter had spent time in a welsh temple of Buddhism run by a rotund ex hippie called Frank, and since then he had become more and more enamoured by the properties taught of mental strength and the boundaries of physical embodiment and the methods to take yourself beyond them. Peter envied Ian’s release of vulpine freedom and pitied Ian’s reluctance to run with the pack.
Following a corporate team building exercise in a native American reserve he had also learnt to embrace his darker urges and contact his spirit animal (a jellyfish) for guidance in all matters if only he could break Ian’s outer mouse and curb the beast. Ian could be a valuable addition to the Legion of Evil Genius’s. Jeff had been broken easily and no one had traced the bad hypnotherapy to him and since his total transference to highwayman, Jeff had brought in enough money and valuables to begin finance of his bigger plans (the complete control of Skegness and surrounding villages). Chris was working well as henchman and was big enough and strong enough to turn over your average police confrontation but a 40 stone clown would not be a match for a supernatural werewolf if Ian were turned to the good.

Peter had to twist Ian’s mind if he could control Ian, the beast was his too.

“How does it feel when you.. er … you know change” Peter was tentative but he needed to know if the spirit felt the hungry malice he’d read up on in the library occult section. “Bigger” came his reply, “ no I mean inside in your head, how does it feel while you change, can you feel the strength pulsing into every nerve every muscle. Every bone thickening, the teeth, what about the teeth do you feel them grow in your mouth, their steely points aching to tear skin from sinew and flesh ”. “ I bit my lip once, it hurt like hell”…. “ Hell. Hell. It felt like Hell, you feel Hell” Peter was getting excited this was the first time he’d been able to talk to Ian frankly about his condition outside the group. “ What does Hell feel like Ian, is it power? is it everything in a moment warm, cold what does Hell make you feel? Does it make you want to do things? Does it call to the wolf?”. The Isle of Men was pretty quiet but even the two drunks at the bar looked to Peter and Ian. Ian Let out an embarrassed little laugh “ well, I just meant it hurt, it bled for like an hour and even then I had a swollen lip so when I tried to drink my Ovaltine it ran down my chin and I had to sponge it off the sofa…. Ovaltine stains real bad Pete, Did you know that?…”

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Tags:

humour, nonsense and story