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Henry J. Snorewort sneezed for the first time in 32 years, the time since a pesky DuPage County lycanthrope bit him at age 23. Now 55 but as spry as a twenty-something, he sneezed into his mask like he was supposed to but yuck. Fortunately, Mrs. Snorewort insisted he carry a spare mask. He stuffed the besnotted cover into the left back pocket of his bluejeans and slipped the new mask out of the right. Four clean layers of cloth, including an American flag design printed on the outside layer, protected others from his fevered self.
By the time he arrived home with the groceries, Henry felt hot. Mrs. Snorewort confirmed his 104 degrees Fahrenheit fever. “Flu or Covid. Your choice,” said Mrs. Snorewort.
“You don't sound worried, my dear,” said Henry.
“Why should I worry? We have a million dollar life insurance policy on you.”
“True, dear, but you never know. You might get lucky.”
“If you can rid yourself of that fever, maybe we both can get lucky tonight.”
“I better lay down before I pass out.”
“Soup for dinner?”
“I doubt I can eat anything. Besides I have a meeting tonight.”
“Not another one of your Moon Watchers Club affairs?”
“Sorry, honey, but the full moon will rise tonight. I'll return early.”
“Harrumph. Early for moon watchers means five in the morning.”
“I can return from our usual lunacy sooner than that.”
They say you need silver to kill a werewolf. Otherwise, you have to chop off its head. Henry found a third way that evening. He joined his lycanthropic friends shortly before midnight, never mind his fever or his mask. It's not as if you can convince a werewolf to practice social distancing or worry about a buddy who sprays when he sneezes in the time of Covid. Besides, what good is a mask when you have a snout nearly a foot long from eyeball to fang overbite?
THE END?
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Friday, November 6, 2020
Werewolves in the Time of Corona
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