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Part One: The Café
For those who are not familiar with SoHo, which stands for South of Horton and is the general area where this portion of our story will take place, it is an area of the City of Westminster which sits at the West End of London. Henry VIII developed farmland there into a royal park in 1536. SoHo became a highly developed area which appealed to the aristocrats during the 17th century. This became especially true as SoHo Square and St. Anne’s Church became prominent areas of development and landmark establishments toward the end of the century.
In 1854 a terrible outbreak of cholera resulted in most of the aristocratic class moving away from the area though it remained a foothold for prostitution. Many leading film industries were stationed in the SoHo district as well. Today, post 1980 that is, the area is a high-end fashion industry with upscale restaurants and a few media offices still sporadically spread throughout the area. There is a small sex industry venue, however, it is not what it once was. London’s LGBTQ community is also centered on Old Compton Street in SoHo.
As I drive past the Buckingham Palace I take a left and continue past St. James’s Café and wonder why we didn’t meet there instead. It would have been closer for both of us. Nonetheless, I dial up Carlos to let him know that I will arrive shortly at the Little Portland café.
“Ello, bruv. How’s you?” came the typical response from Carlos.
“I’m great, guy. I shall be there in a matter of moments,” I informed him.
“Cool! I will wait outside the entrance on Little Portland Street,” he said eagerly.
“Right on. Catch you in a moment,” I said as I hit the end button on my dashboard touch screen.
Carlos is an outstanding guy. We have been friends ever since childhood. We went through the entirety of grade school and college together. His sister struggled for two years to beat breast cancer when he was in fourth grade and it was during this trial life offered that Carlos and I became inseparable.
I feel that he and I have driven each other to do better just because we are so competitive. He would sign up for 22 college hours; I would sign up for 23 just to piss him off. Once, after half a semester was over and we were done with mid-terms, he showed me that he had actually taken more classes than he had previously told me. Of course, it was too late to sign up for more courses and I was essentially as mad at him as I had ever been. We truly feuded for the remainder of the course year, though, still inseparable.
“So, what are you thinking?” he asked unfolding his menu.
“Speagethi Bolognaise with sussage, perhaps. Oh, wait, that shepherd’s pie with baked beans and sussage looks smashing as well,” I enthusiastically told Carlos. I was quite aware that Carlos, ever impatient, was waiting on me. He was a very easy-going guy who liked beer, sports, and always ordered the same thing from each place that we frequented. Well, almost always.
“Spicy chicken and chips?” I asked.
“Nope.”
“No? Maybe chicken and mashed potatoes?”
“No, mate. I ordered the Big English with mushrooms,” was his response with a large smile.
“Beer?”
“Always,” Carlos said raising his hand to flag the waitress over as we both laughed. We greeted the waitress with our orders. Shortly after that she was walking away to get a large picture of beer for the two of us. Naturally, Carlos couldn’t take his hungry eyes off her short, black, leather skirt.
“Look at that,” Carlos whispered leaning across the table while staring at the backside of the waitress.
“I prefer not to,” I said gloomily.
“Bro, you can’t ignore the fact that you are single as fuck and have always been single as fuck,” he told me, “you will have to make your move sooner or later.”
“Well, ignoring the fact or not, I prefer not to window shop as much as you do,” came my quick and snappy reply. “You are single as fuck also, dude.”
“That may be the case but I have women come and go on the weekends. True, nothing steady, but you don’t even get out,” which, knowing Carlos as I do, was code for ‘get laid’.
“This better not be the way you intend to converse with me while we eat,” I informed him rather tersely. I didn’t mind so much when we were younger because I figured that the conversations may lead to some ah-ha! moment which might benefit me when it came to being single or “getting out.” But never once have the conversations done anything but piss me off.
“Ok, bruv, ok. Let’s just enjoy ourselves and forget I mentioned that you are getting older and might need to consider . . .” but I gave the salt shaker a loud clank on the table along side my fashionably sarcastic look that told him to shut the hell up.
“Alright, I’m just joking. Look here comes our beer,” at which point the waitress sat our sea of white foaming beer on the table with two frosty mugs.
“Thanks,” was our simultaneous reply with a wide smile.
“Your food will be out shortly. Will you be needing anything else?” she asked. I looked for Carlos to lead the way as I poured my beer.
“No, that will be all, thank you so much” he continued to smile. I gave a brief laugh after she walked away.
“Anything else?” I said as we laughed together like little children.
“Anything? Like, absolutely any fucking thing at all?” Carlos let out with a loud laugh.
“Don’t get loud dude. You always get loud when you drink,” I told him as I poured his beer.
“Alright, fair enough. So I want you to look at something,” he said as he pulled out his phone. “Look here,” he said showing me the news report which said:
Locales Question Werewolf Theory
“Oh, give me a break. Are you really buying into that?” I asked rather pointedly.
“Dude, teeth marks, claw marks, everything. People have been murdered without there even being a trace of another human’s DNA. Don’t you think that’s weird? I mean, what person eats a woman’s lungs but leaves no human DNA?!” he queried.
“Jack the Ripper,” I shrugged.
“Just take me seriously for a moment. It’s always during a full moon when it happens and it says that finally the local authorities are potentially looking to solve the murder cases with a theory revolving around werewolves. And this is all a result of the evidence which seems to point in that direction.” To this he was on point.
“Werewolves are so like seventeenth century, guy,” was my brief nonchalant reply.
“Well, I am nervous. Werewolf, or wolves, or not. Something is actually eating its victims,” he said softly while looking around. I was indeed aware as to the truth of this as well. A waiter brought out our food. He handed it out accordingly naming the dishes as we kept talking.
“Big English with mushrooms.”
“I have been looking up a lot about werewolves lately,” Carlos continued with a nod and a smile to the waiter. “Apparently, they like to dress nice, they look extremely normal and well-to-do, just like goddamn aristocrats!”
“Shepards pie with baked beans and sussage.”
“Bro, don’t do it,” I warned once more, “don’t be so loud.” I nodded approvingly to the waiter.
“Will there be anything else?” asked the waiter.
“No thanks,” Carlos and I both said.
“I’m not doing it. But what if they are lurking among us? Seriously, I think I can spot them,” he said looking me straight in the face almost coming to a stand from his seat. I thought he was talking about me for a moment. It made me very nervous.
“How so?” I questioned cautiously.
“Well, what if they are not actually werewolves? It’s not actually a person that transforms in the night, ya know, under a full moon and all that. Isn’t it just as deadly and scary if it is a person who believes they are a werewolf or pretends to be a werewolf? There are a metric shit ton of weird ass people in this world. I went out last Saturday evening for example. I just left SoHo Gardens and I know for a fact this guy could have been a werewolf,” Carlos said as he prepared to review the event. It made me listen eagerly to what he was saying. He wasn’t crazy so I knew if he had a reason for anything it was usually valid.
“Fuck you talking about? You mean a transforming werewolf slash human or a weirdo who thinks they are a werewolf when the moon is full?” I inquired.
“Yes, bruv! Either fucking way. I saw a werewolf,” he said.
“I don’t get it,”
“I saw a werewolf with a Chinese menu in his hand walking through the streets of SoHo in the rain. In the fucking rain nonetheless! He was looking for the place called Lee Ho Fook’s,” he said.
“That’s over on Central. We’ve been there,” I reminded Carlos.
“Gonna get a big dish of beef chow mein,” he spoke pouring another drink.
“You been talking to Warren Zevon?” I joked.
“No, man, I am serious,” was his stern reply.
“You hear him howling around your kitchen door?” I asked seriously.
“It’s not funny, man. Come on,”
“You better not let him in,” I laughed as the intoxicating booze began to lift me up.
“Explain this,” he said eagerly showing me an older article from his phone again:
Little Old Lady Got Mutilated Late Last Night
Werewolves of London Again?
Part Two: They’re Everywhere
So it was yet another day in which my head was pounding as I threw back the covers. Carlos seems to have a way to make me drink way more than I anticipate. I think it mostly hides in the fact that me being just as drunk as Carlos is the only way I can tolerate his rambunctious company. If you can’t beat ‘em . . .
After I showered in an attempt to start what I was hoping would be a casual day, I fell back on the bed and opened my weather app. I noticed immediately that we were to have another supermoon followed by two more before the end of the year.
I saw a pop-up article appear below which said:
Do You Believe? Many Locales Say Yes!
Still hungover, I guess I was intrigued so I clicked it. Immediately it brought me to a page written about a recent murder in Kent which took place during last month’s supermoon. It was in August and the article went on to describe how they found large claw and teeth marks on the woman’s rib cage and thigh bone. The most appalling part of the article to me was that they interviewed locals who were under the impression that it was a werewolf since it happened during the full moon:
“He’s the hairy-handed gent who ran amok in Kent,” remembered one locale.
“I remember that was during a full moon also. And what about the flesh? Where is the flesh? How can someone remove another human’s flesh without it being discovered?” continued another.
I was sick of how people were eager to jump to conclusions without any evidence whatsoever. I turned on the tv and as I walked away I heard a reporter from World News say, “Lately, he’s been overheard in Mayfair. We are wishing everyone a safe weekend as we brace for possibly more murders during this Saturdays full moon. It’s to be followed by two more supermoons before the year is up. Jim,” and the reporter closed off. As I was watching the news a person dressed as a werewolf came on the tv and ran across the news set acting foolishly. Jim stood up and chased him off camera.
“You better stay away from him; he’ll rip your lungs out Jim!” shouted the co-host. This made everyone in the studio laugh. I never understood media humor. It was all very appalling to me.
“Huh?” Jim said laughing taking his seat once more. “I’d like to meet his tailor!”
Part Three: One bourbon, one scotch, one beer.
Tonight is the first supermoon of this month and I was taking a walk through the cool, fall night air near Mayfair. As I stopped at a crosswalk a man pulled up to the stop light smoking a cigar in his Mercedes. He was listening to a talk show when I heard the voice of Jackson Browne speaking:
“It’s about a really well-dressed, ladies’ man, a werewolf preying on little old ladies. In a way it’s the Victorian nightmare, the gigolo thing. The idea behind all those references is the idea of the ne’er do-well who devotes his life to pleasure: the debauched Victorian gentleman in gambling clubs, consorting with prostitutes, the aristocrat who squanders the family fortune. All of that is secreted in that one line: ‘I’d like to meet his tailor.’ ”
Fucking unbelievable. Everyone is spinning yarn about some goddamn werewolf one way or another. Are there teeth marks? Was it a full moon? Or is it about aristocrats and prostitution? Jesus fucking christ! I thought to myself.
My anger was swelling at this point. The world is full of stupid ignorant people. My hands began to tremble. I knew I was letting my rage get the best of me. I stopped in at a local bar for a drink.
“Hey, waiter. Come down here,” I said motioning to the guy. I was ready to smash them down and this time I didn’t need Carlos.
“What will it be?” he asked.
“One bourbon, one scotch,” and I paused. I looked around as I felt everyone was looking at me for some reason or another.
“One beer,” I finished.
“Right away,” he said.
About three and a half hours had elapsed. I motioned for the waiter yet again.
“Come down here!” I shouted and laughed loudly, almost howling. He came down and leaned in which was his slick way of trying to get me to tone it down.
“Another round,” I motioned once more to the empty shot glasses and beer bottles. At this point another gentleman walked up and fell beside me.
“How’s you, mate?” he asked reaching out his hand for a shake.
“Mate, doing well. No real complaints,” I responded.
“My complaints are fucking numerous,” he bemoaned. It appeared we were close to being on the same page. He ordered a couple of shots and a beer. I figured it was women problems. I always loved these guys and their stories. I liked to play along. Made me feel lucky as hell to be free to do as I damn well pleased.
“Let me have it,” I told him.
“Well,” he started but was interrupted by a near empty beer mug pressing against his lips. He eagerly chugged the last few swirls of alcohol and hastened the bartender for more. He pulled out a cigarette lighter.
“Want to tell you a story about the house-man blues,” he laughed putting his arm around me. I lit up a cigarette and laughed at what I knew was going to be a high time.
“What happened? She a cheater?” I guessed.
“No mate,” he replied.
“I come home one Friday,” and he paused again to finally light one up for himself after fumbling through his coat pockets for several moments. The bartender returned with drinks. I was actually surprised that we had ordered so many drinks just between the two of us as the gentleman continued once more.
“I come home one Friday, had to tell the landlady I’da lost my job. She said, ‘that don’t confront me long as I get my money next Friday,’ ” but I interrupted him before he could continue.
“You lost your job?” I asked eagerly anticipating his next utterances.
“Fuck you think! Now, next Friday come, I didn’t have the rent!” he carried on.
“So you had to move out?”
“Out the door I went!” he said leaning in putting his arm around my neck. I was surprised he could sit straight. But he was very entertaining.
“So I started packing and all. Then I thought about it. So, I goes to the landlady. I said, ‘you let me slide?’ I was pissed. Been drinking already, ya know? So, I said, ‘I’ll have the rent for you in a month. Next! I don’t know!’ ”
He was all over the map with his story. I loved it.
“So she let me slide it on you know people,” he said looking around at a few attentive spectators. He ashed his cigarette while exhaling a huge cloud of blue smoke. “I notice when I come home in the evening she ain’t got nothing nice to say to me. But for five goddamn years! . . . ”
“Hey!” the bartender shouted, “easy, mate.”
“My apologies,” the stranger said, “but for five years she was so nice,” he continued, “loh’ she was lovy-dovy,” he smiled with a wink.
“You’re always in good standin’ with women as long as the money is right,” I mentioned.
“Ain’t that right!?” the stranger returned.
“Anyway, I come home one particular evening, the landlady said, ‘you got the rent money?’ I said, ‘no, can’t find no job therefore I ain’t got the money to pay the rent.’ She said, ‘I don’t believe you tryin’ to find no job,’ ” and he looked at me in disbelief. “If she only knew the applications and online bullshit I had to go through. And nothing! Not one goddamn reply. Fucking bitch! And dare I say the five years I have known her do you think she has worked a smidge?”
“I’m guessing not,” I said lightly. I was actually worried about getting him too roused.
“She said, ‘I don’t believe you trying to find no job. Said, ‘I seen you today you was standin’ on a corner leaning up against a post.’ ”
“Why she hounding you so, mate?” asked a guy who walked up to grab his drink.
“She’s the landlady, mate. She wants her money,” said another guy a few seats down.
“Oh, no. You better pay up, pal,” came his reply as he walked away with his drink.
“I wish I could. Too late for that. Anyway, she said I was leaning on a post being lazy. I said, ‘but I’m tired. I’ve been walkin’ all day.’ She said, ‘that don’t confront me long as I get my money next Friday.’ So we tried it once more. Now, next Friday come, I didn’t have the rent and out the door I went!” he shouted hysterically.
“So, this next Friday you speak of. Was that yesterday?” I asked.
“Forsooth, mate. It was,” he continued to smoke and drink away.
“So I go down the streets down to my good friend’s house. I said, ‘look man I’m outdoors you know? Can I stay with you maybe a couple of days?’ He said, ‘let me go ask my wife.’ ”
“Well,” interrupted one of the guys a couple barstools away, “that would not have been my response. I might have gone to let her know you were staying, but I sure as hell wouldn’t ask for no goddamn permission,” the guy finished.
“You married?” another asked the interrupter.
”No, why?” the interrupter asked.
“Exactly,” I said to which we all laughed.
“You have to keep them happy or they will take everything. That’s all there is to it!” I shouted. The bartender gave me a look. I acknowledged what that look meant and sat down once again to listen to the stranger finish his woeful tale.
“So I was outside in the rain pacing back and forth. He didn’t even invite me in. He come out of the house. I could see it in his face. I know that was no. He said, ‘I don’t know man, ah, she kinda funny, you know?’ I said, ‘I know, everybody funny, now you funny too.’ ”
“What an arse! That is your best friend?” asked the guy beside the stranger.
“Was, mate. Was my best friend. I helped that mother fucker so many times it ain’t worth it,” he exclaimed.
“And now you are here,” I said.
“No, not at all. So, I go back home. I’m not known for lying but sometimes you feel like the world is against you, jobs and all. I tell the landlady I got a job. I’m gonna pay the rent. She said, ‘oh yeah?’ And then she was so nice. Loh’ she was lovy-dovy!”
“Wait! You went back!?” shouted the guy next to my strange friend.
“What the fuck,” I said in disbelief.
“Yeah, no big deal. So I go in my room, pack up my things and I go. I slip out the back door and down the streets I go. She howlin’ about the front rent, she’ll be lucky to get the back rent,” he stopped to catch a drink sliding his way.
“There, mate. That’s for you,” said another stranger from down the way.
“Cheers!” said the stranger.
“Cheers!” shouted everyone in the bar to which we all raised our glasses and started singing now that it was nigh closing time.
99 bottles of beer on the wall, 99 bottles of beer. Take one down, pass it around, 99 bottles of beer on the wall. Hurray!
Part Four: The Man of a Thousand Faces
I was as far gone as ever when I finally left the bar. I was noticing that the moon was as full and large as I had seen in a long while. I have to be honest, I could barely walk. I was almost hit by a car as I attempted to cross the street. I stood in front of the vehicle with its blinding lights and loudly honking horn looking squarely at the driver behind the wheel.
“Hey, you drunk fuck! What the hell you doing, mate?! Get out of the way!” screamed the driver from inside the car.
“What am I doing? Well, I saw Lon Chaney walking with the Queen doin’ the werewolves of London!” I howled. I began to ache painfully all over. The black man jumped out of the car and stood behind the open door.
“Hey, bro. Disrespect the Queen again and I’ll personally fuck you up.”
“Sorry, man. Maybe you didn’t hear me. I said, I saw Lon Chaney Jr. walking with the Queen,” as I slammed my hands firmly on the hood of his car.
“Knock it off, bro. I’m no joke,” he shouted angrily.
“You know why?” I asked.
“Know why? The fuck you mean? I know why I’m gonna shoot your arse if you don’t get off my goddamn car!” He began walking around to the front of the car. I stood looking at him straight in the face.
“Look, pal. Cross the street and go your own way!” he motioned.
“I said I saw Lon Chaney walking with the Queen,”
“Who the fuck is Lon Chaney arsehole?”
“You don’t know The Man of a Thousand Faces?” I asked as I got closer to the man. “The Monster? The Phantom of the Opera? The Blackbird? The fucking Hunchback of Notre Dame?! ah-hoooo!!!” I howled.
“I’m gonna shoot you motherfucker I have had enough!” he shouted as he returned to the the driver side of his car. Other vehicles began to blow their horns as the lights kept changing colors. The man turned around and I grabbed him by his throat and lifted him off the ground into the brightness of the supermoon.
“Hey, wait. What are you doin, man?” he asked as I squeezed his throat tighter and tighter. He dropped his gun on the asphalt and it became lost in the darkness under his car. Blood rapidly began to expel from his nostrils and down over his lips.
“Doin’ the werewolves of London,” I said as my sharp grin could be seen in his large dark pupils. He began to spit up blood as I squeezed with all my might. I could feel my claws digging into his neck deeper and deeper.
“Stop!” shouted a bystander. I turned around dropping the man to the ground who was now choking and gasping for air.
“I saw a werewolf drinkin’ a piña colada at Trader Vic’s!” I shouted as I approached the bystander. Several others were getting out of their vehicles also.
“It’s a werewolf!” someone shouted. I began to hear screams from all directions.
I ran up to the bystander who turned to run.
“His hair was perfect,” I said grabbing him.
“Somebody!” he shouted. He had more to say but I quickly pulled his throat out with my teeth and threw his body onto the cold asphalt. He cascaded a deep dark blood onto the street.
I heard a loud shot. It was the black guy who almost run me over at the crosswalk. He found his pistol and was unsteadily aiming it at me while still holding his throat and staggering toward me. Blood forced its way between his fingers and onto several cars that people had evacuated under the stop light. I could hear the sirens. Charcoal black blood was springing forth from my two victims and streaming into the gutters. My breath created a fog in the cold, damp, night air.
“Mother fucker,” the black man whispered as he staggered closer still taking aim. He shot the pistol again. He had hit me both times but it was too late. I had fully transformed and these were not silver bullets. I walked over to him as he fell onto another vehicle bleeding out from the lacerations around his throat. I stood over him, looking at him as he squirmed around frantically smearing blood all over the vehicles. The scene, with all the gushing blood, reminded me of the nightmare Calpurnia had of Julius Caesar as a statue streaming blood in many directions in which the conspirators of his murder were smiling and bathing their hands.
“It’s time,” I said.
“Please,” he coughed again with his hands around his neck. He was drawing closer to his end. He no longer had the strength to hold his gun, much less to aim it. He slipped down the front of an abandoned car leaving a red smear on the white hood.
“Hey,” I said leaning over with long sharp claws and huge white fangs. . .
“Draw blood.”
