Though he looked a lot younger and thinner, the werewolf sprawled out over plastic bags was Roscoe. He was drunk, ofcourse, but there was also something different about his body, like he had gone completely numb from the neck down. There was no way to know how much time had passed between the last vision and now. However, judging from the blocky Pontiac GTO parked on the other side of the street and the tie-dye Volkswagen minibus behind it, it was safe to assume the decade.
The door to the club opened again, and another werewolf hobbled out, followed by an irate human man.
“You’re both fired,” the human shouted in a thick Italio-American accent, pouring a pitcher of ice water onto Roscoe’s head. “Get the hell outta here, or I’m calling Vince.”
“C’mon man,” the tall, black werewolf said as Roscoe gasped and moaned. “He’s having a gnarly trip. I told you he hadn’t done this stuff before.”
“He shagged my girl. If we didn’t go way back, I wouldn’t think twice about having him tied up and thrown in the lake.”
The partially sober werewolf grabbed Roscoe’s arm before lifting it over his shoulders. With a series of half-aware grunts, Roscoe leaned into him as they disappeared around the corner. The scene faded and reappeared, Bon Jovi blaring through the speakers in a small room full of colorful lights. There were two werewolves, including Roscoe and one dark-skinned half-turn lying naked on a sturdy coffee table with lines of cocaine trailing down his chest. He looked to be close to turning because he was hairier and had a small tail jutting from his lower back.
Roscoe knelt next to the half-turn, his snout inches away from the white powder, but a clawed hand caught his nose.
“Hold it,” the half-turn said with an impatient scowl. “One hundred for the blow, one hundred and fifty for the blow job. Two hundred for a full fuck.”
“Aw man. I only got a hundred.” Roscoe backed away, reaching into the pocket of his orange, discarded hoodie pocket that had been lying on the ripped couch.
The half-turn gawked at Roscoe’s thick cock and licked his lips. “Maybe I’ll giveyoua discount,” he said, grabbing Roscoe’s slick shaft while pointing to one of the lines. “You get that one”—he pointed to the other black werewolf from the alley—“and you get the other.”
Both of them turned into beasts and pressed their snouts into the cocaine, the stimulant mixing with half-turn pheromones making them snarl with ecstasy. When they were done, Roscoe was barely able to slow himself enough to allow the guy time to prepare. His dick sank into the needy half-turn’s ass, eliciting a low gasp as the other werewolf positioned himself at the other end.
Part of me was a little jealous, but the other part of me knew where this was headed. A human man walked into the room, younger-looking with light brown hair fashioned into a mullet, his thick facial hair trimmed into long sideburns and a soul patch. The black-furred werewolf immediately caught his scent and grabbed the man’s arm in a fit of lust.
“Darryl,” the half-turn shouted as Roscoe thrusted harder. “Get the hell outta here.” He grabbed the other werewolf by the dick and pulled. “He’s a human. Leave him alone.”
The black werewolf yelped and turned his attention back to the half-turn on the coffee table. Human Darryl slowly backed out of the door. So that’s what he looked like. I’d have never guessed aside from the facial hair, considering he was about four inches shorter than me.
The vision progressed until it was just Roscoe sitting on a stained carpet, leaning against the corner as he slowly came down from another state of mixed inebriation and stimulant abuse.
“You look pathetic,” came a young man’s voice.
I turned toward Darryl who sat on a wooden chair while plucking a guitar string, twisting the tuning knobs at the top. It was a beautiful instrument, hand-carved and lovingly polished.
“I wish you’d stop coming around here,” he continued, staring in disgust.
“Don’t like me?” Roscoe slurred. “Join the club.”
“The only reason Ramón keeps you around is because he’s about to turn.”
“Guess I’m the only one that can make his eyes roll back, huh?” He looked up at Darryl. “Ever been fucked by a werewolf before?”
“None of your business.” Darryl held up a hand. “Also, I know where this is going, and no. I’d rather dive head-first into a sewer.”
“Eh. I’m too tired anyway.”
Darryl gave the guitar one final test strum before playing something sounding like flamenco. Roscoe smiled, his tail swaying in time with the rhythm.
“Shit, dude. You’re good,” Roscoe said. “Likereallygood. Who taught you to play?”
“My dad,” Darryl responded, his eyes closed as he focused on the music.
“Is yer old man famous or somethin’?”
Darryl stopped mid-strum before opening his eyes again. He gently placed the guitar on a stand before reaching for an ashtray with a pre-rolled joint pressed between the divots lining the center.
“You want a hit?” he asked, positioning the joint between his lips.
“Can’t turn down free weed.” Roscoe pushed himself off the floor and sat on the other chair at the table.
