This was square one of my tale. This was where I began composing. If there's anything that drives fan-writers, it's the relationshipping. We correct the defects and the oversights of the stories we're drawn to. We fix what's wrong and supplement what's right; which is a totally arrogant attitude regarding the source material, assuming we can improve on the original. If a written story is good enough to be published and widely enjoyed, then the writer must have some talent and insight. But within the parameters of fan-fiction, it is permitted to play fast and loose. And there is nothing more appealing, in my opinion, than two people drawn together in spite of themselves.
The question occurred to me during the initial writing; who is the more superficial? Is it Minerva, who wants a handsome husband with rich parents, or Wilford, who is attracted by purely sensual appeal? And am I being wearily moralizing for posing the question? All will be made plain. The purpose of any story at last one with some kind of redemptive framework, is for the characters to grow
Wilford
chpt. 2
that full moon night, her POV
It had been the most confusing night of her life. Minerva Mink had put up all day with Wilford B. Wolf's clumsy attempts at wooing her.
Actually, it was rather sweet; at least the handful of limp posies was. She put him off the way she usually did with annoying suitors. She put on her best sensual breathy voice and batted her big flirty eyelashes.
She had to admire Wilford's self-control. Most males went into seizures when she turned on the charm. They did appalling things to themselves, like popping their eyeballs out of the sockets, issuing steam from their ears, practically pulling their tongues or ears off, breaking into fragments, inflicting great bodily harm, or otherwise enduring incredible physical distension. And on top of that, their significant others usually beat the daylights out of them. Wilford only mumbled unintelligibly and melted into a pile of goo.
She had to be careful. Sympathy for him was dulling her killer instinct and taking the edge off her game. She found herself moderating her influence on him. She actually bestowed a couple extra caresses of the hand and flick of the tale, out of sympathy. She could well inoculate him against her charms.
She had to give the guy credit. Of all the dozens of males of numerous species who came on to her, stalked her, tried to trap, abduct, solicit, or otherwise harass her, Wilford was far and away the most courteous, considerate, and consistent. He never failed to compliment her. His gifts were small and sensible, not extravagant or laden with double meaning. Wilford accorded Minerva something she rarely got from males; respect.
But the stupid serenade while she was showering; it interrupted her little tune and her self-commiseration over her continual failure to find a romantic attachment worthy of her.
It was an ear-splitting racket with the bass drum and cymbals. At least he didn't blow the saxophone; thank Heaven for small favors. And the xylophone he played between his ankles; puh-leeeze. In retaliation, she turned a fire hose on him. She even activated the Extreme 'Toon Response Mechanism she had gotten from Acme Distributors, and dropped a fire hydrant and a hook and ladder truck on him. And he finally got the message.
Minerva gussied herself up that evening. There was no place to go or no one to go with, but it was just some 'me' time for her; it felt nice to imagine there was a reason to dress formal.
But Wilford struck…again. As Minerva assuaged her broken heart with getting fancy, Wilford consoled himself by baying at the moon. And it got on her last nerve.
Wolves had that way about them. It was a haunting sound, the baying of the wolves. It never failed to give Minerva delicious shivers. It was an ancient feral sound, and awakened ancient feral stirrings within her. It harkened back to an untamed undomesticated past. If it were anyone but Wilford, she might even consider dating the one baying. So she dressed down in her denim shorts and crop top, and went out to give him the most scathing tongue-lashing she could administer…only to find the most alluring strapping robust wolf she had ever laid eyes on.
His pelt was the color of blueberries. In deep shadow, it was an Egyptian blue. His hair and tail were as flowing as hers. Under the glimmer of the full moon, it had a silvery sheen. The broad shoulders were slumped, as though in dejection. The words of her sharp retort, intended for another, "Wilford B. Wolf…!" were already out of her mouth. At the sound, he turned…
…He loomed over her like a colossus. Her jaw went slack. He was an Adonis; an Apollo; a Hercules. Those thighs; those abs; those pectorals; those shoulders; those arms. He spoke, calling her by name. That voice, as cultivated as an aristocrat's.
At the sight of him, Minerva had behaved almost as extremely as most males did when beholding her. Her tongue lolled. Her eyes bugged out. She panted. She muttered; "Humina…humina…humina…humina…" She did handsprings and backflips. She yelped with delight. She practically yodeled. She had to slap herself to regain her composure.
And so began a night as confusing as any Shakespearean play of mistaken identity, cross purposes, mistiming, and bad judgment. She begged his indulgence while she rushed back and got on her best gown. Then he kept disappearing and reappearing. In his place, like a changeling child, kept reappearing Wilford. She made frantic pantomimes, trying to describe the mysterious one's appearance; big height, big shoulders, bodybuilder physique. And while Wilford stared bewildered, she ran helter-skelter over the countryside, searching behind saplings, dunking her head in streams, babbling rhymes from Blind Man's Bluff, looking for her elusive paramour.
She would faint from bliss at seeing him seemingly materialize before her when the clouds obscuring the full moon scudded away. And a moment later, when she regained consciousness, she would faint in disappointment as seeing Wilford in the same spot.
Fate was finally kind to her; or so it seemed at first. She awoke to find herself in the big guy's arms. Without hesitation, she gloomed onto his neck and gave him a scorching kiss. She wouldn't let him get away again; not that he seemed interesting in going anywhere else; she just wanted to make sure she didn't lose him again.
Minerva was exhausted by sunrise. The kiss must've lasted for at least an hour and a half
There she was; one moment in the arms of her newfound man, the next moment, in Wilford's arms, staring up at him. She was completely flabbergasted She couldn't jump out of his arms fast enough. With stuttering and more pantomimes, she demanded to know what was going on.
Thoroughly cowed, his ears and tail drooping like a whipped cur, Wilford revealed his great secret. Minerva stared at him in disbelief. She half wanted to clout him for "toying with her heart", and half wanted to hug him out of sympathy. Common sense and a shred of decency prevailed. And a little glimmer of hope flared to life in Minerva Mink's heart.
Fate usually tricked her the way she usually tricked her pursuers and would-be suitors. But this time, it seemed to be cutting her a deal. Instead of a loser like Vinnie, who would tease her with good looks, and then insult her to her face and take her for everything she was worth, or a prick like Mau Mau who actually abused and threatened her, here was a decent guy who adored her madly. There was no reason they both shouldn't come away getting what they wanted; provided she was willing to wait.
She thought about it afterward.
Most men, when not going berserk over her, either objectified her, dismissed her, exploited her, or even tried to do her bodily harm. Trudy's cousin Vinnie insisted on freeloading off her for their date, and then called her a "yutz" when he provoked the same usual hysterics that she caused in other men.
Wilford apologized for dashing her expectations. And then he patiently and boringly explained how he would change again in twenty-eight days. He gave a typical nerdy lecture, complete with pull-down astronomical sky chart and pointer stick.
Any other male might have taken advantage of Minerva while she was in a faint. It had happened before. Wilford only took her up in her arms. There was no doubt about it; Wilford B. Wolf was a class act.
"Yes, Wilford," she said demurely. "I'll go out with you."
For a moment, he looked like he might suffer another meltdown. "Er…uh…oh…when…oh…uh…er…would you like to….uh…" It was getting uncomfortably long for him to complete the sentence.
She mercifully cut it short. "At the next full moon." So saying, she tenderly caressed him with her tail, grasped both his cheeks firmly with both her hands, and gently but resolutely kissed him squarely on the lips; a prolonged, lingering kiss. "Mmmmmmmm-muah!" And she batted her big flirty eyelashes again.
His red bow tie twirled again "Oh boy…oboy-oboy oboy-oboy-oboy," he mumbled. His ears began to flap, and he actually floated out of her sight.
She sighed dreamily…and hardly got to her hollow log bungalow. She stumbled with weariness. She got out of her gown and laid it over a chair. She didn't bother with a nightgown. She got under her covers and wrapped herself in her luxurious stole-like tail. Giggling contently, she was gently snoring in a moment.
to be continued