The Pig and the Prosecutor: The Tale of Bob

The moon can drive a man wild. Imagine what it can do to something that is not a man.

He was quite mad, you know. Always walking down the hallways, eating something he had carried in from the hunt--the hallways of his house. He'd walk down that path, the beaten and trodden path of old rugged carpet that needed a shampoo. Every time he walked, aimlessly, he would always step over that crack that had gotten into the rug--mysteriously, rather, for the entirety of the floor was covered by sandy-brown carpet, yet one spot eluded the protection, and was bare--with a crack.

He'd step over that many a time as he walked, and ate what had been stupid enough to fall into his clutches. If he had caught nothing, then he would take a bag, wad it up, and add it to his pile, the pile of bags that he had collected over the years. He also had a receipt collection, and a collection of plastic weapons that sometimes came with action figures. He also collected the tabs that came with soda cans, though nobody knew why. He would pace around his collection, walking, and eating, this insane, sick, twisted, sick man.

Yet he was not a man.

Or else he'd go down the stairs, eight that led to his front door, and from there, seven that led to the large downstairs area, which had been covered in a chocolate-colored carpet, and this rug had been even worse than the one colored like sand. It had been so raggedy and old that he had to have it replaced, and of course with a replacement came redecoration. The entire downstairs area was now completely new, and the carpet--white--was now lovely to roll around on, especially with nothing to wear. But he had to wash his hands first, because he did so love to eat.

No man knew his mind, but he himself was not a man--an illusion of a man, perhaps. He carried with him a pole, a brown one, and with it did he defend his honor and himself, or sometimes he would use it to strike his prey. No, he had claws and teeth for that. He would use those to kill his prey, and then, like any civilized gent, he would skin them and clean them and then rip the bodies apart by the bone. The fashion in which he devoured his pray was most uncivilized--rather barbaric, really. He had to wash up a great deal before he rolled around on his carpet.

He remembered one event in particular when he stole a young boy's fish, and ate it for supper--not the boy, the fish. The gear was left behind for the boy to misuse--poor chap never learned how to fish properly, being the orphan and all. Poor stupid, dumb twit of a boy, fishing for what, worms? He could certainly catch worms. The minnows he hooked were too small to feed a mouse. When he did catch a fish, the werewolf ate it.

At least, that's what the boy claimed. He had grown up hearing tales of the insane werewolf man, and how he would run out and kill pigs and eat them, or steal fish, or trap birds, or that sort of thing. He believed them, naturally, so he came prepared every day whenever he stepped outside. When the boy went to fish, rather poorly if it can be said, he always carried with him the werewolf's bane, silver. The dogs couldn't stand it--not his hound, which he had saved and kept and loved, but the wolf of the night, the creature of madness.

It could also be said that the savage insane creature can choose to be in the image of man at times, for even werewolves must protect themselves by disguise so as to not draw the eyes of true men. They are savage beasts, wild, untamed, and must appear to be docile when roaming around every day. They must not be seen, but must remain hidden, amidst all the other people who are stupid enough to believe in superstition. Can't have him being discovered now, can we? That would most definitely ruin his day now, would it not?

On some other circumstance, he would sometimes go into the forest to see what vegetables and fruits tasted like. He loved pomegranates, but they were so difficult to find in his area, which was definitely not tropical. Werewolves were not born and bred to be raised in the tropics; no, from their fur alone, one can deduce that they prefer the chilly cold, to a point. But this wolf-man loved the pomegranates, and the tropical fruits--but of course, he loved meat even more, especially when it was dripping fresh with the scent of a freshly-caught carcass.

Chew and swallow, and he'd make a mess. His entire body would be covered in a very dark pink liquid, the blood of some of the animals that he had caught. If he was extremely lucky, now--the werewolf--he would sometimes catch and eat and ruin himself on an animal that did not bleed red. He loved it when animals bled different colors. One day, he must make a portrait from the blood of animals. That would be the civilized thing to do, now wouldn't it?

Taking utter precautions not to be seen, especially when hunting or stealing fish from orphaned boys, there was one werewolf in particular that stood out of the rest, but mostly because he was quite mad. There was not a sane bone in his body--no, not anywhere. The very visage of insanity was stamped on his forehead; it ran through his veins and colored his own blood; it was in his hair whenever a comb touched it, which was rare. Madness.

Of course, even he too had to drink from the lake from time to time. He needed water just as the boars and the deer did. Sometimes he ate the boars and deer. That was okay. They were quite delicious, but left a mess that was terribly hard to clean. Can't clean in the lake, that's where you get your water. Must clean elsewhere, maybe in a river. Rivers run fast and smooth, carrying the washed blood away. You'll never see it again, so go, and bathe, but make sure nobody steals your clothes. Rolling on the rug naked is fine, but running home as thus is not, unless you're not a man.

So go and eat, child of the night. When you are a man, it is day, and the sun shines, and you can run around because you have a good disguise on. But when the dark night dawns and there comes out a moon, be it full or in a crescent, you may shed your disguise and come out a werewolf, and do as you please--steal another fish, maybe. Just make sure the people remember it is only a legend.

The End

Author's note: …Whew. This all came out of nowhere. Readers, take note. This is the result of what happens when you don't plan for a story. Everything you have just read, with one very minor exception, has poured out of my thoughts and directly onto the computer, in the matter of only ten or so minutes. Call it stream of consciousness if you will, or if you prefer, insanity. Did I perform better when I had a plan, or did all this rambling mean only nothing? Was this better, or worse than my other stories? That's left up for you to decide. Oh, and if you hear a snarling sound at your door tonight, and you see something out of the ordinary--or if you hear the howling of wolves gone mad by the moon, don't worry. That's no werewolf--it's just Halloween.