Saturday, June 20, 2009

Werewolf Dreams by M.M. Anderson

Cool Werewolves, a hot heroine, and things that go bump in the night.

Chapter One
Park Patrol


The moon was a waxing crescent.
Officer Seamus Sullivan, New City’s lone werewolf
policeman, slurped the raspberry jelly out of a Krinkle
Kreme donut and lobbed the frosted dough lump out the
window of his blue and white patrol car. It bounced off the
rim of an overflowing garbage can and landed in the paws
of a ragged rat. Feeding Midtown Gardens residents wasn’t
the same as littering, not in Seamus’s mind, anyway.
“Park patrol,” groaned Seamus as he reached for a
cruller. An insatiable sweet tooth and wet dog body odor
were constant but bearable human-form werewolf traits,
although soggy canine funk insured that Seamus’s love life
remained nonexistent. Also on the downside list of werewolf
traits was the “never age” dilemma, which meant
Seamus would stay seventeen forever. On the totally
downside of werewolf was the “moon” matter, and as
Seamus had learned, the “controlling your anger” problem.
Both of these occurrences made him sprout coarse
black fur and razor-sharp incisors, which led to the “holy
smokes” response that prompted Sergeant Gaffney to
consult a lunar calendar and give Seamus blue moon vacation
time and full moon days off.
After a recent newspaper article appeared, the sergeant
also saw to it that Seamus was assigned solo nightshift
park duty, until further notice. Midtown Gardens was
closed to the public from 10:00 PM to 6:00 AM. Seamus
and his New City Police Department radio car were posted
to make certain the park stayed vacant and graffiti-free.
“Sarge, what am I, a watch dog?” protested Seamus
when he heard about his new patrol detail.
Sgt. Gaffney didn’t respond, or look up from his desk
blotter. The reassignment wasn’t open for discussion.
Despite being annoyed and having a bruised ego, Seamus
decided he wouldn’t push the park patrol issue. He knew
Sergeant Gaffney had no choice but to protect his own
twilight career and Seamus’s hairy butt from controversy
and scrutiny, or worse.
Midtown Gardens duty notwithstanding, Seamus also
knew there was a definite upside to being an undead werewolf—
still living.
Seamus possessed an overzealous fight gene and never
retreated when danger reared its homicidal head. In his
four years as an officer of the law, Seamus would have died
many violent deaths had he still been a mortal.
On duty and off, Seamus hated bullies. They made him
react, and more often than not, lose his Irish temper. On
the offensive, Officer Sullivan experienced first-hand
what it was like to be stabbed, shot, bludgeoned, electrocuted,
squashed by a renegade train, pushed off a bridge,
and blown-up in a fiery skyscraper terrorist attack. He
walked away unscathed (usually on all fours) from each
altercation.
Eternal life undead had earned Seamus a slew of medals
for honor and valor, but it had also won him the unwanted
attention of Lyman Newlin, the formerly well-known
and presently crusty New City Chronicle police reporter.
The following editorial by Newlin appeared just prior to
Seamus’s park patrol reassignment:
Officer Seamus Sullivan from the 20th
Precinct seems to rise from the ashes
time and time again, like the mythical
phoenix. How does this young patrolman
defy death? Can survival be attributed
to a lucky break? And what about the
mysterious black hound that seems to
follow him around? Is Seamus Sullivan
New City’s very own superhero with a
canine sidekick?
The buried-on-page-nineteen blurb went unnoticed by
most New Citiers. Father X. Francis Benedict, however,
read the piece with rapt interest.
Mickey Stella, wanna-be wise guy, two-time jailbird,
part-time hit man, and small-time stolen goods fencer sat
alone at the end of the Cock of the Flock Tavern bar. He
puffed an unfiltered cigarette and nursed his fifth and
final bottom shelf double Scotch & soda. He’d been cutoff
by the bartender for uninhibited off gassing.
Mickey was low on cash and irritated about being
stood up by some guy who was going to cut him in on
some sort of great deal, moving stuff from an electronics
heist. Something to do with eye pads or pea pods. The
alcohol had made Mickey’s recall more foggy than usual.
Not to mention years of hallucinogenic drugs, lack of
exercise, and a diet high in partially hydrogenated oils.
Mickey liked to think of himself as a big guy, the
bouncer type. Mickey had horizontal butt crack on the
back of his neck and he could no longer bet numbers
higher than ten. Most people who knew Mickey referred
to him as a dumb, fat mook—even his mother.
Mickey knew this for certain because he used to go
with her to church.
Mama Stella lit devotional candles and prayed for her
only child every morning at 7:30 mass, “Dear Holy Mary
Mother of God, please watch over my dumb, fat mook
son and forgive me for whatever trespasses I did wrong to
give birth to such a loser. Amen.”
Mickey stumbled out of the Cock of the Flock Tavern
and squinted at his watch dial. It was either 12:10 or 2:00.
He couldn’t quite tell, but he was coherent enough to
know he had a transportation issue. Mickey hadn’t
considered finding a lift home, and he refused to take the bus
or subway, not at this late hour anyway, all the weirdoes,
too scary.
Mickey expected the guy with the goods to have wheels
and drive him back over the bridge to Sicily Town after
their deal went down. Mickey had planned to choke the
guy lifeless, bury the body, and keep the car for a few days.
Mickey’s Caddie was in the shop again and Mama Stella
wasn’t exactly generous with her antique Pacer. The moon
buggy sported a bumper sticker that read: HIT ME AND
WE EXPLODE TOGETHER.
That was Plan A. Mickey didn’t have a Plan B, and he
didn’t have return cab fare to Sicily Town. Not that any
New City taxi driver would have ferried Mickey over the
bridge to Sicily Town, not at such a late hour, for any
price, all the weirdoes, too scary.
With drunken clarity, Mickey decided to walk the six
and a quarter miles back to his basement apartment, the
studio he rented from his mother. Mickey hoped she wasn’t
waiting up, although he knew she would be. He pictured
her sour face glued to the kitchen window next to
the cellar door, waiting, watching, worrying. Mama Stella
wouldn’t let Mickey go to sleep without first giving her a
detailed account of his evening. Mickey had long ago run
out of credible fibs for his many midnight escapades,
especially fibs to explain all the digging that went on in
the vegetable garden after dark.
Four short blocks later, Mickey was bathed in sweat
and there was a raw spot on his inner butt cheek where his
size 48 briefs had crawled and bunched and began chafing.
“This freakin’ sucks!” screamed Mickey as he dislodged
the wedgie. A few slow steps later the wilted
traveler removed his sports jacket, and unbuttoned his
damp rayon dress shirt collar before cursing the heat,
which now topped the list of Mickey’s mounting aggravations.
Middle of the night and the mercury was still hovering
around a humid 85 degrees. Tomorrow snow was in the
forecast—that was springtime in New City.
A lone cab stopped for the light. Mickey ambled forward
and grabbed the passenger door handle, but not
before the driver caught sight of the Neanderthal wouldbe
fare in the rearview mirror, pushed auto-lock, and sped
away. Mickey tumbled onto the curb. It wasn’t his night.
“Eat dung! You diaper head, camel face, toilet… freakin’…
mother… ah, shit!” Mickey’s voice was hoarse from
too many smokes and chronic post-nasal drip. He now
had a rip in his sleeve and his elbow was scuffed. He sat
on the grimy concrete for a moment and tried his best to
contemplate the situation. The park loomed in front of
Mickey’s weary view. If he wanted to get home any time
before dawn he’d have to pick himself up and continue
walking.
Mickey decided Plan B was to skim a mile or so off his
impossible foot journey by cutting through Midtown
Gardens.
Mickey crossed the street and yanked the CLOSED
sign from the park’s entryway gate, bent it in half, tossed
it into the deserted avenue, and wished aloud in a flurry
of expletives that the discarded metal would tear through
the next passing cab’s tire.
Two hundred yards away, the clink-clank-clinking of
aluminum sign on potholed asphalt awoke Seamus from
a momentary snooze. The scent of sour body odor, blood,
tobacco, and cheap booze also reached Seamus long
before Mickey lumbered through the park clearing. The
trespasser stopped beside a lonely bench where he paused
to pee on an over-flowing garbage can. Seamus walked up
behind Mickey, flashlight in hand.
“Let’s go, Chief,” said Seamus.
Mickey jumped. “What the—?”
“Park’s closed. Or didn’t you read the sign before flinging
it into the street?”
Mickey finished urinating in silence, shook twice, then
pushed his pecker back into his fly and wiped a wet hand
on his pant leg.
“Prove I flinged the sign onto Garden Avenue, flatfoot.
Smells like a stinkin’wet dog around here.” Mickey sniffed
his own armpits.
“Emptied your tank, now beat it. If you wanna tip-toe
through the tulips, come back after 6:00.” Seamus
motioned with the flashlight beam, illuminating the
direction of nearest park exit. “Start walking.”
Mickey sat himself down on a park bench next to the
garbage can. “I ain’t going nowheres, flatfoot.”
According to the Police Handbook Course of Action,
Section 10, when dealing with an intoxicated person an
officer should:
1. Establish contact in a friendly manner and gain
trust.
2. Never be condescending.
3. Don’t debate.
4. Blame the reason why the person has to leave on
someone besides you.
5. Lie if you have to, to make them happy.
Seamus sighed. He hated dealing with drunks. The five
rules of law enforcement procedure never seemed to
work. He gave it a go anyway.
“Listen, Chief; it doesn’t look like you had such a good
night, but I don’t make the rules around here. Go home.
Things’ll be better in the morning.”
Mickey didn’t move or reply.
“The park is closed—you gotta leave.”
“Who says, flatfoot?” Mickey cocked his head and
glared at Seamus.
“I says.” Seamus folded his arms and stood erect, positioned
cop-style steadfast in a puddle of lamppost light.
Broad shouldered, muscular, 5’11”, clean-cut, baby faced,
Seamus didn’t look a day older than his forever seventeen
years.
Mickey grinned.
In one fast and fluid motion, Mickey grabbed the nearby
trashcan and crashed it across Seamus’s knees.
Seamus collapsed like a house of cards on a windy day.
Mickey followed with a second crushing blow to the
downed officer’s head, splitting it like a ripe watermelon.
Mickey rolled the bloodied, wounded policeman onto his
back and helped himself to the vehicle keys before removing
Seamus’s service revolver from its holster. He fired two
shots into the unconscious officer’s chest, stuffed the
smoking gun into his own waistband, and trotted towards
the radio car.
Seamus’s lupus conversion was swift and furious.
Mickey made it halfway across the clearing before he
heard the pursuing patter of paws. The cop killer slowed
his lumbering jog and glanced over his left shoulder. He
was eye-to-eye with a furious frothing werewolf.
“Big dog!” yelled Mickey, pulling the revolver from his
pocket. He didn’t get the opportunity to fire. An enormous
pair of razor-sharp jaws clamped over Mickey’s fleshy neck
with the force and speed of a guillotine. He was DOA
before his decapitated corpse hit the grass with a THUD.
By the time the frenzied werewolf had consumed
Mickey’s cirrhosis liver, not a trace of desecrated carcass
remained. It had burst into a momentary flame and vanished
into the darkness. Whatever personal articles were
left behind comprised a pile of soon-to-be-windblown
ashes.
Except the gun. It belonged to Seamus.
Seamus the werewolf loped back towards the patrol car,
his rage subsiding along with his consciousness. His stomach
was already beginning to boil and cramp. Don’t eat
drunks’ livers.
Seamus heaved and drooled and retched and hurled
Mickey chunks before catching sight of the familiar
apparition hovering above the grass. There she was again,
watching him from her glistening sphere of luminescence.
Seamus wagged his bushy black tail and whimpered an
affectionate greeting. He liked it when phantom woman
showed up to his kills in the buff. Tonight, however, she
was wearing pink paisley pajamas. All the same, nude or
clothed, she was hot.
It wasn’t long before Seamus’s vision faded to black.
Lights out.




That was the first chapter or M.M. Anderson's debut novel Werewolf Dreams. To celebrate the release I will be hosting a contest with a prize of a free autographed copy of Werewolf Dreams. Also to celebrate the release M.M. Anderson will be stopping by Laurel's YA Book Reviews for an author interview. If you have any specific questions that you would like for me to ask M.M. Anderson I would be glad to ask her if you would just leave the questions in a comment on this post.

Also I have a poll for a new slogan I guess you could say. If you don't like any of the ones that I put up on there and you have one that you think sounds good please leave it in a comment on this post. Also if someone posted a comment came up with a slogan that you like it would be great if you comment and say if you like that one because at the end of ,I don't know, a week? I will come back to this post and the poll and see which one you guys liked the best and I'll use that one on my new header. If there happens to be a tie for the slogan I'll be having another poll to choose which one you guys think is the best for my page.

2 comments:

  1. Hmm, looks like an interesting book. I'll have to look into it. The writing is really good. I'll be looking forward to your upcoming interview. I'm sorry I am unable to provide any good questions for M.M. Anderson; I'm not the best at thinking up questions for someone unless I've been obsessing over their writing for a while. ;-)

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