Halloween is the shittiest time of year to go hunting for werewolves. The bastards stroll around in the open, all but flipping the bird at you, and you can’t shoot unless you’re dead certain it’s not Little Suzie in a hairy costume. I mean, fuck. Tonight, I was in Wergild, Maine. Little town. You’ve never heard of it. Thing is, this place goes ape for Halloween. There was this local legend about Hubert Clayton, a founder who shot his own son in a quarrel and secretly served the guy’s flesh up to his fellows. That’s how bloody sick this place is. I’d figured that some werewolf was in the area. Usual stuff: blogs by kooks, stories about sightings, news on loons in bars. The main street was full of costumed crazies who should know better. Pumpkins every-fucking-where. Vampire… Werewolf… Skeleton… Bedsheet ghost… Werewolf… Werewolf… Vampire… Ghoul… Zombie… Vampire… Werewolf… You see what I mean? Needle in a haystack, except the needle kills you. Me? Dressed as a secret agent with a gun. Oh yeah. Audacity: I can fucking do that too, were-boy. And before you go nuts, I’ve seen werewolves in action all along the Eastern Seaboard. I’ll spare you the gory details, because you don’t deserve nightmares. I don’t want that on my fucking conscience. So there I was, looking for a werewolf among werewolves. The bugger of it all? No way to tell for [i]sure[/i] until the thing savages someone. By then I’m too late. You gotta watch for signs. Ears slightly too mobile. Drool’s too shiny. Eyes slightly too large— “This isn’t your fight,” whispered someone behind me. “Stay out of it.” The bastard must have flannel feet! I swung around. Nothing. Except crowds with werewolves all over. This was gonna be [i]hard[/i]. [hr] Alright. Clue number one. That blogger, “Wergild W8tcHer” or whatever, said the thing moved around the woods northeast of town. Check the woods, flashlight ready. Gun ready. Found a den. Found some dead chickens. Cheerful. Poor farmer’s gonna flip his shit when he sees this. So… maybe a meatie? It’s like a veggie—vegetarian—only for werewolves, it’s a step up just to get them off human and onto chicken. Even if it is raw. So… a sporting werewolf? Clue number two. Newspaper office located on the southern side of town, overlooking Pebble Beach. They published the story: an attack on some local bigwig, Lou P. Garou. French bugger. “A dog tried to get into his house?” I asked. “Uh huh,” said the reporter—young, blonde, keen type, hasn’t yet learned about confidentiality and the risk of getting her ass sued to hell. “Or it could’ve been a bear.” “That happens a lot here?” “No. That’s what made it so exciting! And everyone in town talked about it!” I gave her some life-saving tips on not running her mouth off like this—hey, I’ve got a soul—and left. Clue number three. The loony in the bar. Scott Shilling, the local fisherman. The Bar… the local bar. Creative with names, they ain’t. Somewhere between the Irish whiskey and the god-awful beer, Scott went off about “that cocky asshole” Garou, “shootin’ up the damn place, scarin’ the fish away”. I asked if Garou hunted, then. Ten minutes after looking for his car keys, Scott said yes, and don’t ask the bastard about it or I’ll die of old age afore he’s finished. Truth be told, I kinda liked Scotty-boy already. Maybe when I’m off-duty, I’ll pay his tab. A hunter. A rare attack. A meatie. Now it adds up. [i]That[/i] old story. Crap. Garou was making a speech tonight; knew that from the newspaper. He’s the shit around here, apparently. If you ask the locals, he made God’s green earth and then got a divine license to shoot anything he wanted. Clearly, my night shift wasn’t over yet. [hr] Wergild Town Centre isn’t that bad. There’s a nice fountain, and they set up some lights to turn it green for Halloween. Old Garou—big, beefy bastard with a mustache you could throw like a boomerang—stood on a podium, going on about the legend of Clayton. I guessed they were related. I kept an eye on the werewolves in the crowd. Not easy. They were fucking everywhere. Gun fully loaded. That guy? No. That guy? Or that guy? Something stirred. I looked back. One werewolf slid through the crowd, eyes fixed on Garou. The old stealthy assassination. In plain sight. Audacious bastard, huh? I sighed. Hell, do I hate this job— He pounced. BANG! My bullet got there first. The werewolf went down like a dog. Lucky for him, I aimed to wound. He was writhing, screaming, and grabbing his arm like I’d thrown acid. Garou just stared at the thing for a sec. Then he pulled out his shotgun. I aimed. “Don’t fucking think about it.” He glared at me. I glared back. I’m the better glarer. He dropped it. The werewolf shouted, “You fuck! Twenty years a meatie, twenty goddamn years with Lucy, and you arrogant son-of-a-bitch! You bullshitting crackbrained fuckface! You… You…” I gave him a sedative. Poor bastard. At the time, I just dragged the werewolf out and drove him to HQ for counseling. Later, I spun some yarn about a drunk in a werewolf costume. The job demands confidentiality. Later on, I paid Garou a visit. Explained a few things to him. Gave him some nightmares.