The Final Meeting of the Moon Watcher's Club

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The Moon Watchers Club chased a herd of 12 does and one buck over in rural Kane County this past full moon cycle. Before they tired, Snorewort picked up the scent of a cow despite his fever. The pack soon settled for a cow asleep in the Brickslobber's north forty. Daisy had wandered out of the barn earlier that evening, according Sheriff Ivan Wilson quoted in the Daily Hopper.

Henry J. Snorewort collapsed after he severed the cow's jugular vein. Ira Brickslobber found him in the morning. Henry lay next to the bloody remains of the half-eaten cow. The autopsy later revealed he died of Covid 19. From that night's gathering, six members of the Moon Watcher's Club spread the Corona virus to three high schools where they infected fellow staff members. No students were affected due to remote learning. The club members each served as assistant principals. Three other Moon Watchers Club associates spread Covid to 150 co-workers at the factories or warehouses that employed them. Four Evangelical Christian werewolves spread the Corona virus to more than 500 worshipers due to these conservative churches' refusal to shut down or require masks and social distancing. For some reason God chose not to protect these congregants when the werewolf members attended.

Thanks to the werewolves, not only did a Kane County cow part ways with the earth, but also the Moon Watchers wreaked havoc upon their home county. DuPage County's death count set records that moon cycle for new cases of the pandemic disease. The death of the members of the Moon Watchers Club rid the DuPage County forest preserve district of one of its most vexing problems, the large amount of wolf poo left on the forest preserve trails during the full moon along with any number of partially-devoured carcasses of small animals and late evening joggers.

Mrs. Snorewort collected on her late husband's million-dollar life insurance. She quit her job at Walmart, sold her Naperville home (one of those big jobs) and moved to Florida where she died of Covid three weeks after her arrival. No one bothered to track the body count from her move either in Florida or at the many stops she made along the drive. Her two adult children plan to use the Florida home as a getaway for winter vacations. For some reason, the kids never caught Covid. Yet.

THE END

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Werewolves in the Time of Corona

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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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Frankenstein’s Rant

Mrs. Frankenstein, like all women, doesn’t leave the old castle the way us regular men do. No, Mrs. Frankenstein, my darling Hildegard, has to get ready first. Let’s say we’re due at the Coplenopolis’s at 7 pm. Guess what time Mrs. Frankenstein saunters to the front door and announces “Okay, I’m ready?”

Go ahead, guess. If you said 7:05 pm, you’d be correct. Does she then proceed to the family SUV? Of course not. “Okay, I’m ready” translates into “Okay, it’s time to check to make sure I unplugged every plug in the house, turned off the stove, shut off the dryer, turned down the heat, put the trash out, fed the dog, made sure the cat is back in the house, and given written instructions to the babysitter for little Frankie and Franny.

At 7:25 pm, she slides into the passenger seat of the SUV. We need a big one because, if you saw the film, you noticed we are tall people. I think old Doctor Frankenstein added extra parts in us. I put the SUV in reverse and back out of the driveway while the missus yells at me for driving before she has a chance to buckle up and settle in.

When we finally arrive at the Coplenopolis’s, it’s 7:45 pm. But do the Coplenopolis’s see our scarred good looks at 7:45? Don’t be silly. You could stick four guys in a car and drive somewhere, I don’t care where, let’s say I haul my buddies the count, the werewolf and one of those mummy chaps to choir practice (strip joint). What do you think we do when we get there?  Exactly. We get out of the car. Four doors on the old SUV pop open at approximately the same time – immediately upon stoping.

Now, let’s consider Mrs. Frankenstein, who by the way, is like most women you know, if a bit uglier, well, I shouldn’t say “uglier.” It’s an ugly word. She’s just a little bit scar-challenged if you get my drift.

“Don’t worry,” says the missus. “Everyone always comes late.” She says this with a straight face while I’m checking out the 32 automobiles stuffed into the Coplenopolis’s driveway. I make the mistake of popping my door open. Big mistake. Wife says, “Where are you going?” Doesn’t she know?

Okay, the search for her purse begins. Then she asks if she should wear her sweater into the house. “Why’d you wear it, if you didn’t want to wear it?” I ask. This conversation is a repeat of the same stupid conversation we’ve had since 1889 so you’d think I’d learn a new line or two, but no, I’m Frankenstein’s monster. He didn’t exactly steal the high IQ brain for my head.  Anyway, the wife has removed the sweater and is now going through her purse. “Purse,” of course, means that giant tote bag she drags around with her so rummaging through it takes a while.

“Aren’t you ready yet, dear?” I ask repeating the century old script.

“In a moment, darling. I want to check my makeup.”

Let’s think about this, boys and girls, she wants to check her makeup. Mrs. Frankenstein wants to take a gander at her face. The mirror cracked the first time she peeked at her mug in this vehicle, and that was a long time ago so I don’t  know what’s she’s expecting to see. Did you ever try to check a face full of scars in a cracked mirror?

A few minutes go by. The face that could sink a thousand ships now has shiny red lips and some rosy colored rouge smeared on her scarred cheeks. The scars now stand out as deep rose lines against a pale-as-death complexion because the rouge settles in the deepest places.

“How do I look?” she asks.

By this time I remember the consequences of truth. “Beautiful, my darling.”

She gives me an angry look. “Why are you just sitting there? We’re late. Let’s go.”

Yes, finally, she exits the SUV and heads for the front door. I’m about to ring the doorbell when she says, “I’ve changed my mind.”

Where have I heard that before?

She smiles like there’s no reason in the world why I should be beside myself with Frankensteinian anger. She says, “I think I’ll take my sweater after all. Will you run to the car and get it for me?”

THE END

Deep inside many a monster is what used to be a troubled human. Dracula was once a medieval count with a propensity for scaring the delights out of his enemies, especially the invading Turks. The Werewolf of London was an English bloke who minded his own business until one day a dog bit him. Well, he thought it was a dog. Our friend Frankenstein was a pile of dead bodies without a care in this world when a crazy scientist began sewing bits and pieces of people together.

In my new novel, Steel Pennies, there’s a monster loose who doesn’t look like a vampire, werewolf or a hideous pile of spare parts sewn together, but my character is a human monster just the same. Your challenge is to figure out who the monster is before this character kills Tommy’s girlfriend. Tommy is the main character in this teenaged romance gone wild. Blending humor with horror is a fun challenge for me as an author. But the humor fades away before the shocking conclusion of Steel Pennies. Did you enjoy reading Frankenstein’s rant? If yes, you’ll love the fast paced action of Steel Pennies. Check it out on Amazon.

The Dead Werewolf’s Rant

I’m dead, not undead, not a zombie, not a vampire. I’m dead, plain old dead-as-a-doornail dead. Let me explain while my body transforms from the wolf state back into something resembling a dead human.

I was minding my own business in the front yard howling at the full moon the way I did every month. I heard a loud pop and felt a sharp pain in my chest. Since werewolves rarely have a heart attack, I figured right away it was a silver bullet. Sure enough, that weird kid down the street came charging over to me with guns blazing. Where does a nineteen-year-old semi-hermit accumulate enough silver for a fistful of automatic weapons clips?

I bled out long before the police arrived. And that silver dissolved my heart along with half my chest cavity by the time the flashing ambulance lights spun down my street.

No, I’m not going to be revived. Dead werewolves return to their human state for the funeral. The end. All she wrote. But before I leave this life, I want to warn you mothers out there to beware of your sons.

You  know the boys I’m talking about. They’re between about fifteen and thirty. They’re peculiar. I know you’re in denial. I can hear you right now saying, “There’s nothing wrong with my Harry. He just hasn’t found himself yet.”

You, lady, are in denial about your son. If he is on medication, if his brain doesn’t work the same way as most people’s brains, if he is the loner type, if he is this stranger in your home, please, for all our sakes, get the guns out of the house.

Yes, your husband has the right to bear arms. And he has a right to defend his home. But he also has the right to use a little commonsense. If the kid just ain’t right, get the guns out of the house. Stash them at Aunt Edna’s home or in a storage locker away from the kid.

Okay, I know you’re saying your child is a sweet boy, really, and would never harm anyone. And you’re about to tell me that young people with his particular condition are never violent. But, mom, that’s exactly what those other moms said in Colorado and Connecticut and Arizona and wherever else some sweet, innocent, but slightly deranged young man opened fire on a crowd of equally young, innocent and normally arranged people.

And it’s not just people. I was a werewolf for crying out in the light of the moon. Give me a break. Who gives a hoot about werewolves? It’s not like we hurt anyone, right? We just howl once a month. And okay, maybe we’re a little aggressive at the meat counter and always order our hamburgers extra raw, but is that any reason to shoot a werewolf?

Well, it’s too late to give me a break, but give the kindergarten children in your neighborhood a break by getting those guns out of the house. And the silver. Do you know where your silver is at this moment? Jerrold Slimpnickel’s mother thought her silver was in the dining room in that drawer in the middle of her china cabinet. Turns out her silver was melted down six months ago in the basement and made into silver bullets for killing werewolves like the late me.

Your boy will thank you later when his only friend, Norman Boingbanger, gets arrested on the way to your local elementary school with a boatload of his dad’s automatic rifles. So yeah, hide the silver and get those guns out of the house.

THE END 

Quotable
"She placed her left hand on my right cheek, the one on my face."
Paul R. Lloyd
Steel Pennies