This yarn is embellished approximately one-to-five percent due to age-related cognitive-decline, also known in certain Discord circles as Dave Atsals’ Syndrome (DAS). This tale is going to sound fictitious, like many of my stories, but I can assure you that those who knew me in the eighties and nineties would understand. You see, I settled down in the twenty-first century, when Dean Moriarty somehow morphed quietly into Ward Cleaver. Anyway, back in the Bruce Springsteenesque glory days, the night was dark and stormy. OK, the moon was very full, which may or may not have inspired me to dress like Lon Cheney’s version of the Wolfman. You know, old school. This was before American Werewolf in London, before Underworld, or even before Old School, for that matter. Back in those days we only had Boris Karloff, Bela Lugosi, and Warren Zevon to frighten us. If that didn’t work, my GPA usually did the trick.
After my transformation, I headed down to the Zeta sorority house with my then girlfriend, Whatshername. Note to self: it’s never a good idea to take a date to a sorority house party. It marked the beginning of the end of our relationship. As the party waned, I exited stage left, minus my girlfriend or any of the Zeta sisters. As I stumbled back to my dorm, I couldn’t help but notice how the soccer field net looked like a massive, yet at the same time, very inviting hammock. As it turned out, in a pinch, soccer nets can sufficiently fulfill the role of a hammock. The only problem being, police and or other law enforcement officials do not feel that soccer nets should be used in such a capacity in the wee hours of the morning by drunken lycanthropic college students. Suddenly, two large high beams silhouetted me and my hammock-antics against a rocky outcropping on the far side of the field. I raised my cup in salute to my hammocked-self and may well have attempted shadow puppets, before the significance of the light show sunk in.
When the situation became apparent, I shifted into character by hissing and growling at the intrusion and then I leapt down from the soccer net. Attempting this today, would mark the end of my tale—unless I did something funny at the police station, which has been known to happen. But, not at all amused, the coppers exited their vehicle and slammed shut the car doors. Still in character, I sprinted across the field. Once to the wood line, to my shock and amazement, the two officers were right behind me with bobbing flashlights. I snarled at the pursuers and made for the woods at the corner of the field and then scrambled up a fairly steep embankment. Again to my dismay, the bobbing lights followed. Now picture this if you will: still growling and hissing with atmospheric bobbing head lights in hot pursuit, I made my way up that mountain. The whole time I was thinking, “this is way too cool!”
Some mist on the ground would have been perfect! I stopped to take a leak, which wasn’t exactly dry ice, but it couldn’t hurt.
When I reached the crest of the hill, I came upon a small clearing at the summit. The lights of my pursuers finally faded as the woods grew still. In the moonlight, my eyes focused on a hodgepodge of very old and decrepit tombstones. A whirring and flapping of membranous wings split the night as the sound of a distant arcane church bell gonged thrice with an unearthly resonance across the ancient necropolis (OK, this sentence is just a Lovecraft tribute. They happen from time to time. I’m trying to get help, honest).
But I had, quite unwittingly, entered some old cemetery—dressed as wolf, on Halloween night; chased there by the bobbing lights of the authorities (do you begin to understand why my date bolted?). For a short time I relished the moonlit atmosphere. Then I did what any good werewolf should; I bayed at the moon until my throat grew raw. Upon heading back down the hill, I feasted on the flesh of the Zeta girls in a carnal and cannibalistic frenzy. OK, that part didn’t happen either…at least I’m reasonably sure. I wasn’t horribly fond of the Zeta sisters, so maybe…