To Con A Werewolf

By Kristiana Sfirlea

This city was no place for a werewolf.

The sound of heavy boots thundered behind him, and Clawson Fangsworth dodged down a dark alleyway. His bare, hairy feet squelched in a puddle of questionable substance. There was the filth, for one thing. On all fours, any werewolf worth his silver bullets could outpace a copper on his tail—and sweet doggy biscuits, those boots hurt—but the idea of putting his front paws, the paws he ate his food with, on the filthy streets was enough to make him gag like the time he’d swallowed a wishbone on Thanksgiving.

If he hacked up that wishbone now, he’d wish to be anywhere but London. Yet this was the location the B.A.R.K9—Bipedal Association of Rare Canines—Council had chosen. And they’d have his hide for a rug if he showed up late.

Oh, who was he kidding? They’d have his hide for a doormat, something on which they could wipe the filth of London from their feet. No one would care if he showed up at all, let alone late. The great convention, first of its kind, a milestone to all bipedal canines in their quest for recognition, would begin without Clawson Fangsworth, and no one would give a flea-bitten bark about it.

Two cops raced past his hiding place, batons held high. They backtracked, stopping at the mouth of the alley. It overflowed with such repulsive muck that even the silver rays of the full moon pulled back squeamishly.

Clawson tugged the collar of his trench coat over his snout to mute his breathing—and to mask the stench wafting up from between his toes. Why, oh why, was it so hard to find size 18 shoes?

The cops stared down the murky alleyway. Wrinkled their noses. Looked down at their shiny black boots.

“He went that way.” One cop gave a confident nod toward the brightly lit street. They charged off.

And the real reason London was no place for a werewolf: Murder. Robbery. Crime. It spilled from every window, under every brick, out of every door. And who would be law enforcement’s prime suspect but the gentleman with the hairy, shoeless feet who was wearing a trench coat, scarf, wide-brimmed fedora, and oversized sunglasses at night?

But how else was he supposed to find the convention without alerting the Londoners to the werewolves in their midst? Cop magnet or not, the overdressed disguise would have to do.

After scraping his feet clean on the alley wall, Clawson reentered the street, hat pulled low. People jostled him on either side, bumping into his large frame without so much as a “pardon me.” The very purpose of the B.A.R.K9 Council was to champion underdogs everywhere and fetch them their proper recognition. Soon London’s population of fresh, lively blood would either comply to the Council’s agenda or suffer the consequences!

An elbow, small and pointy, jabbed his ribs, and he grunted.

“Hey!” someone shouted. “Stop!”

Mother of Milk-Bones, what was he being accused of now? Stealing an old lady’s purse? Knocking over the Queen? Ripping someone’s lungs out?

He bolted for the nearest alley. This one was cleaner and better lit than the last. It also ended in a brick wall.

“Of all the flea-bitten…”

Clawson ground his teeth. His hackles rose. The person who’d shouted must have followed him. Facing the wall, he untied his scarf and took off his hat and sunglasses. He bared his teeth and thought of the juiciest, bloodiest steak imaginable. Within seconds, his fangs dripped with saliva.

He could do this. He was born to do this. Acting brave, acting tough, acting scary was his career!

With his most fearsome, spit-flinging snarl, Clawson whirled around.

“It is you, isn’t it?” His accuser was a young human girl wearing a fuzzy hat with pointed wolf ears. Her button nose was painted black. “Oh, I thought you were brilliant in Doctor Who. Series Two, Tooth and Claw, right?”

Foregoing his façade, he shrugged modestly. “It was my breakout role.”

“Are you looking for Howl Con? If you’re lost, I can take you there. I’m on my way now.”

“Really?” His tail wagged. Then lowered. “But you wouldn’t want to show up with me. I’m not exactly Romulus Dogstar.”

“He played the werewolf in Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban, didn’t he? I didn’t think he was that good. Too skinny and hairless.” The girl smiled. “I’d much rather show up with Clawson Fangsworth.”

She really did know who he was! “What’s your name?”

“Emily. But today I’m going by Pupsqueak Wolfsong.” She dug inside her pack and took out a menu for Lee Ho Fook’s. “Are you hungry? I was going to stop for Chinese before the Con.”

They walked arm-in-arm to the restaurant.

“You should take off your disguise,” Pupsqueak advised before they entered. “In London, no one will notice you if you just be yourself.”

Nervously, Clawson shed his trench coat, revealing the black dress suit and doggy bone tie beneath. The waiter looked up, his eyes trailing from Pupsqueak’s wolf hat to the tail sticking out from Clawson’s nether regions. “Nice costumes. Who’s your tailor?”

Clawson rubbed his clean paws eagerly over his beef chow mein dinner. You lose, London filth! “Did you know I was an extra in Underworld? Had to drop twenty pounds for the role and didn’t eat meat for a month! I’m telling you, the unrealistic body images of Hollywood…” He scooped up a werewolf-sized bite, no silverware necessary.

“Actually… before we dig in…” Pupsqueak reached into her pack. “Can I have your pawtograph?

Maybe London wasn’t so bad after all.

Can you guess which song from the 1970's inspired this story? Share in the comments!

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Kristiana Sfirlea is a former haunted house operator and agented writer of middle grade fantasy involving time travel and things that go bump in the night. She dreams of the day she can run her own bookstore. Or haunted house. Or a haunted bookstore! She loves Jesus, her family, and imaginary life with her characters, in that order.

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