New York City. The dead of night.
I walk down its streets, an old coat pulled close to keep away the chill of the night's breeze, and I try to keep my gaze straight ahead. I ignore the beggars huddled in doorways, some of whom start to call out for spare change before sensing my uncooperative mood and cutting themselves short. I ignore the local tough guys, some of whom call out in challenge and then gloat to their friends when I just keep on walking; it wouldn't be a fair fight, anyways. I even ignore the hookers, with their sloppy make-up and their dresses cut to leave nothing to the imagination.
Well... not entirely.
The man in me, when I glance at them, feels an instant longing. It's been a long time since I've been with a woman; even longer since I've been with one I liked. Roxanna... now there was a woman. She was beautiful... smart... funny... everything a man could want. Everything a man could dream of. Which, I guess, is why I had to leave her.
In the end, she just deserved better.
You see, the man in me isn't the only part that responds when I see a bare leg and a hint of cleavage in the cool air of the twilight hours. No, the Wolf responds, too - and the Wolf is more primal, more savage, than any mere Man. The Wolf wants me to leap on them, then and there, to take whatever pleasure I desire. It wants to make them his. But worse, some small part of it is even more primal - it wants to feed. It wants to bury its fangs into that soft skin... rend tasty flesh... and taste the warm blood of a recent kill.
I can almost taste that blood. I know I have, in the past. The gush of that first bite sets my saliva to running, even as some deep part of me... as of yet untouched by the curse... is repulsed. I can even see it... all that red. All that wet warmth.
Needless to say, I do my best to crush those thoughts.
Some of the prostitutes jeer and shout insults as I turn away from them. They question if I'm a real man; they question if I'd prefer a man. For the briefest of moments, that stings. Maybe I'm not the greatest judge of character... Hell, I know I'm not... but I like to think that I'm a good-looking guy. I never had trouble getting women before the curse, and even with it I've had my successes. Roxanna stands a sterling testament to that, even if I managed to screw it up in the end. So to hear their laughter... it stings. But you know what? It's better this way. Cleaner, too, in more ways than one; even in human form, I can almost smell the stench of disease and drug use on many of them. Besides - they're hookers. Why should I care what they think?
As I leave street corners and feminine gibes behind, I realize that - like usual - I don't really know where I'm going. I passed my apartment, such as it is, three blocks ago. It's not much, just a living room, a bedroom, and a bathroom, but it's still more than I've had at times. It's better than those damned sewers I'm forced to endure every full moon, at least. But tonight, even without the moon gleaming full and bright in the sky above to set my blood broiling, it feels too... confining. The Wolf within me is restless... and I need freedom. I need space. I need fresh air - or the closest you can get to it, in a city like this.
With this urge taking hold of me, I make for Central Park. As the night wears on, I pass fewer and fewer people as most turn in for the night or head to the more sociable areas of the city - the bars and clubs and less reputable joints. They're welcome to them; large groups of people make me anxious. No, I prefer someplace where I have more than just a little elbow room, a place where no one's looking to strike up a conversation or puke on my shoes.
And tonight, Central Park suits my needs perfectly.
Walking down a walkway after crossing the street and entering the Park proper, I keep my hands shoved in my pockets and my head tilted down Even here, though, I pass other people. A pair of joggers race past me as they argue about the last Mets game, and moments later a lone runner jogs past me in the other direction while trying to sing along to the bad hip-hop that I hear blaring in his headphones. The Wolf in me wants to maul him for offending my ears like that... but I show remarkable restraint. Moving on, I pass a man sleeping on a bench... two teenagers cuddling in the shadow of a large oak tree... and an older man with wary eyes and an unfriendly frown walking a pair of dogs that inexplicably begin to whimper until I'm long out of sight. This last one actually makes me smile. Soon, though, I find myself at the entrance of a tunnel, the inside unlit and gloomy... and all I can hear are the chirps of crickets and the far-distant sounds of a sleeping city. Here, I think to myself, I'm finally alone just like I wanted to be.
Or am I?
Right before I enter the tunnel, I catch a whiff of something that alerts even the Man within me. It's the scent of alcohol, leather, and unwashed bodies. It's the scent of trouble.
Quickly realizing that I'm not as alone as I thought, I stop before the tunnel's entrance and frown into the gloom within. I know what is coming, but even so part of me hopes that I'm wrong. Central Park is supposed to be safe these days, right? Crime's down, the mayor likes to boast. I guess it's just my poor luck, then, that my initial fears are realized - for when I refuse to enter the tunnel, the people who were waiting on me come out.
There are five of them, all young and all male, dressed in everything from standard punk attire - studded leather jackets, jeans, and ripped shirt - to a pair of jogging pants and just a pair of jogging pants. Individually, though all are fit, none look particularly threatening to me, and I imagine that a couple wouldn't look threatening to your average New Yorker, either. But then... I guess that's why they're together. The man at the forefront, sporting greasy hair and an unwashed beard, steps even further out from his fellows and speaks with a voice flooded with uneducated demand. "Heh... nice night out, heh... right?" I decline to respond; I'm too busy trying to shut down my gag reflex - for even from here, I can smell the alcohol on his breath and see the yellow stains on his teeth. A trip to the dentist, for this one, would not go amiss.
His companions, however, either can't see my dilemma or, more likely, don't care. "Yo!" A second man, the one in the aforementioned jogging pants which droop just enough to hint at heart-print boxers, steps forward with an incredulous expression and a hint of menace. "You gonna answer my man, or what?" His friends looking on anxiously; one, bald and wearing a tank-top that shows off a copious amount of tribal tattoos all over his bare and muscular arms, even tightens his grip on a baseball bat noticeably. The threat is clear; a response is demanded. Fine, then. If it'll prevent this from getting any uglier, I'll play. "Yeah...," I mutter without much enthusiasm. "It's nice, I guess."
AAANK. Wrong answer, and I can tell that immediately from the leader's ugly smile.
The greasy-haired leader steps forward once more, a sickening smile on his face. "Glad you agree. So how 'bout makin' our night even nicer... an' given us whatever you got in them pockets, huh?" His friends standing behind him chuckle; they must think that this is the part where their chosen victim falls to his knees, does as they demand, and begs to not be hurt. Maybe it's even the part where, after getting what they want, they put a hurting on their victim anyways; the bald one with the baseball bat, and the traditional-looking punk at the back sporting twitchy-eyes and a switchblade in hand, certainly look like they want a little action tonight. "You heard the man...," an idiot wearing shades in the dead of night warns me with a smirk when I don't respond fast enough, "...give it up, b'fore we get nasty!" This prompts another round of laughter from the five thugs. To their surprise, however, I laugh, too.
"Nasty? You don't know nasty, kid..."
I make this retort without really thinking about it; if I had, maybe I would have used more tact. But it's too late now, and the scowl on the face of the bearded ringleader makes that clear. "Well, well. Someone's got a 'tude...," the man remarks to his friends as they, too, look at me with disapproving glowers, and then the fifth and final member of this late hour gang speaks up for the first time. "Let's teach him a lesson, boys!" So says he of the shifty-eyes and the studded jacket as he brandishes his switchblade, and the others are quick to respond with an assortment of weapons; the leader pulls out another knife, while the one in the jogging pants slides a pair of brass knuckles into place (I don't even want to think about where he was keeping them) and the moron in the shades produces a chain that he obviously doesn't have a clue how to wield. Together, they both advance and spread out, clearly eager to surround me and cut off any chance of retreat - but you know what? I let him.
I said the Wolf within me was restless... and, now, it's time to let it come out and play. So as I look from thug to thug, noting that each is as cocksure as the last, my fingers begin to twist and grow disjointed as they become claws and tufts of hair sprout from beneath the sleeves of my shirt and the collar of my jacket. I then look from face to face with a feral grin, my teeth growing elongated and pointed, and let out a throat growl that matches my increasingly hirsute and savage appearance.
"Let's party..."