~Peapod
A LETTER TO PETUNIA
Dear Petunia,
Let me first apologize for the delay in responding to your last letter. It has been a very trying week for me, but you know I rather do hate being tardy with my responses. I hope that your seventeenth birthday celebration was all you hoped it would be. Did you get the ribbon I sent?
I have much to tell you about my recent adventure, but first let me answer the questions from your letter.
While I would love to tell you that I am one of the tall, dark, and handsome vampires that you’ve heard stories about, the truth is that, except for the few fortunate, most of us are just as diverse as any other race. I, for example, stand just a shade over five feet tall, am a tad overweight, and I have little in the way of hair. Even worse, I recently lost one of my fangs while eating one of the new blood peaches that had been shipped down to us from the Upperworld. The idea of a piece of fruit filled with blood was something I couldn’t resist. I soon learned that the peaches don’t actually contain blood, as you probably already know. What they do contain is a very hard seed that sits directly at the center. I bit right into it and snapped my fang in half. The dentist had to pull it out the rest of the way so that another would grow in. With any luck, I will have it back again by the middle of next year.
As to your second question, I can eat pretty much anything, but I do indeed require blood for proper nourishment. It can be most any kind of blood and I have tried all kinds: human, orc, ogre, halfling, and even animals. Mostly animals, actually. I’m not very picky when it comes to plasmatics, but I do tend to stay away from orcs and ogres, if I can help it. They’ve got the kind of blood that is thick, lumpy, and tastes a bit like rotten cheese.
Ah, the time-honored “bats” question. No, we do not turn into bats; we turn into mosquitoes. I’m surprised your elders haven’t already dispelled that myth. The bat thing was just a public relations ploy to try and make it so fewer people despised vampires. We get kind of a bad rap in most communities. Some of it is justified, of course, but we’re no worse than any other race. No better, either. The bad blood (excusing the pun) happened when one of our own began to spread a major epidemic a couple of thousand years ago. A lot of people died because of him and his gang. His name was Mal Aria. Maybe you’ve read about him? Anyway, he was an anomaly. Your average vampire just goes about on the daily treadmill trying to make a living like everyone else, turning into a mosquito only as the need arises.
And finally, regarding how well we vampires get along with werewolves…That’s a rather difficult question. Were I to answer this a couple of weeks back I would have responded simply that we hate them and they hate us.
This hatred began many generations ago. Your history should relate that werewolves were once slaves to vampires. This is false. They merely worked for us. In payment, we provided them shelter, fresh water, kibble, treats, and tennis balls.
Vampires are an arrogant people, though, and so many would act as “master” over their flock. This caused resentment.
Slowly the werewolves formed a union and began making demands. At first it consisted of simple things like better treatment and more time at the park, but soon there were requirements of hourly walks, premium-grade chow, and chew toys that could withstand the power of the werewolf jaw.
The costs were exorbitant.
The vampires grew tired of the constant demands.
Arguments ensued. Personal and physical attacks became the norm. The fabric of peace that had lasted for thousands of years had been ripped to shreds.
And so the werewolves were pushed out of town and replaced with Garden Gnomes, who had been immigrating east during that time.
Vampires and werewolves have been bitter enemies ever since.
So, again, if I were to have answered your question on the day I received your letter I would have said that I hate werewolves as much as they hate me.
Now, though, I’m not sure I can answer that question so simply.
Let me explain.
It all started when I found a stray dog…
A DOG BY ANY OTHER NAME
The day started at the same time it always did, right around 6 p.m.
Paulie pushed open the lid of his box, sat up, stretched, and took inventory of his little house. It wasn’t much, but it was his, and it was a testament to the fact that if one worked hard, sacrificed the finer things, and sacked away as much money as possible, even the most difficult goals could be achieved.
One of the luxuries Paulie had given up was a proper bed. He’d had his eye on the Casket-Number bed for the longest time. The deluxe model. It had controllable firmness settings, memory foam, elevation capability so he could adjust the incline on both the upper and lower sections, and a polished mahogany exterior that promised to seal out all light. Another year of savings and it would be his. For now, though, he made do with the cardboard box that his futon had arrived in.
After freshening up, Paulie grabbed a blood peach from the pantry. He ran his tongue over the empty socket where one of his fangs had gone missing and grunted.
Then he heard a noise.
It was like a licking sound, and it was coming from right outside his front screen door.
Probably another one of Mrs. Luden’s cats. That damnable next door neighbor of his had so many cats that Paulie wondered how she could walk around in her own house. Truth was that she spent so much time sticking her nose in everyone else’s business that she likely didn’t notice how many felines lived with her.
Paulie opened the door and saw a mangy dog sitting on his stoop, licking itself. He couldn’t make out the breed, but he was a mutt of some sort. He had a dirt-smeared, cream-colored coat, floppy ears, and, judging from the tongue-bath he was giving itself, a good sense of flexibility.
“Shoo,” Paulie said, motioning at the dog.
The dog stopped licking, looked at Paulie for a moment, got up, and pushed his way into the house.
“Hey now,” Paulie said, “you can’t come in here.”
“Good evening, Mr. Vergen,” came the grating sound of Mrs. Luden’s voice. “Got yourself a dog, have you?”
“No, no,” Paulie said, forcing the best smile a one-fanged vampire could manage. “He’s not my dog.”
“Watching him for a friend, then?”
“No, I…Hey!” Paulie turned back and saw that the dog was digging through his kitchen wastebasket. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Luden, I must go.”
Paulie darted in and pulled the dog away. The floor was littered with trash and the mutt had a half-eaten biscuit hanging out of its mouth. Paulie went to reach for it, but the dog’s menacing growl changed his mind.
“Okay then, Mr. Biscuits,” said Paulie while retrieving his hand, “you just remember that you’re in my house.”
Paulie began picking up the garbage while he continued scolding the dog.
“It’s bad enough that you barged in uninvited, but this is ridiculous. It’s not easy in this day and age to have nice things, you know. The economy isn’t what it used to be, after all. And another thing…”
Paulie glanced up and noted the dog was no longer in the room with him.
He found the mutt lying comfortably in Paulie’s cardboard bed. The sheets were ruined. They’d have to be washed for certain, even burned if there were fleas involved.
“That’s it,” Paulie said resolutely.
He went to the kitchen and grabbed his broom and then, as if on a mission, began sweeping the mangy dog out the back door of his house. The last thing Paulie wanted to deal with was another discussion with Mrs. Luden. Fortunately, she never seemed to pay much attention to anything going on in the back courtyard.
As if on cue, the moment Paulie finally got the dog out on the rickety wooden deck, a crack of thunder sounded and rain began pouring in droves.
The dog, obviously already in a state of despair over being swept out of the house, looked seriously pathetic as the torrential downpour soaked his fur.
“Don’t you look at me like that,” Paulie said from his dry perch just inside the sliding-glass door. “I didn’t ask you to come here.”
Another crack of thunder caused both Paulie and the dog to jump.
Now the poor thing was shaking and whimpering.
Paulie bit his lip (on one side) and moaned.
“All right,” he said, moving slightly out of the way so the dog could come back in, “but only until the rain stops, and you must stay out of the garbage and off the furniture.”
The dog rushed in and immediately began twisting this way and that to fling the water from his body.
Specks of fresh filth spattered the walls, TV, carpet, and the futon.
It was going to be a long night.
SUMMONED
Stelan Bumache stood at the bar, on the lookout for prospects.
He considered himself quite the ladies’ man.
And why not?
He was six-feet tall, had dark hair and striking green eyes. His skin was perpetually tan. He had a thin mustache that sat above a perfect set of teeth. His choice of garb was top-of-the-line, and he had money.
People called him arrogant.
He took that as a compliment.
“Your scent is interesting,” a rather delectable female said as she placed her drink next to his.
“How so?”
“From your looks, I would place you as human,” she said and then sniffed his neck sensually. “Yet, there is something strange that I can’t place. What are you exactly?”
Stelan had picked up a thing or two during his time in the land of werewolves. He knew that it would play into his favor in securing a partner for an early afternoon romp if he led her on. Besides, he wasn’t one to share the intimate details of who he was. That just wasn’t how an assassin operated.
Stelan preferred brunettes to blondes, but he would let that slide since she was stunning in every other regard. As with all werewolves, her skin was without flaw, her body was curved just so, and her movement was lithe and sensual. Plus, she was human in non-wolf form, which was a requirement for Stelan. The other werewolf types just weren’t his thing.
He looked her over once more and concluded that she would be suitable for his purposes.
“I am what I am,” he replied with a tilt of his head.
“I see,” she said in a sultry voice. “Well, whatever you are, it’s certainly not werewolf, so you must be a brave soul to be in Yezan.”
“Indeed, I must,” he answered after taking a sip from his brandy.
“May I ask you a question?” she ventured.
“My dear, you just have.”
She blinked. “What brings you to town?”
“Business.”
She wanted more of a response, but Stelan wasn’t going to feed her curiosity. She was a werewolf. He had to play a game of cat and mouse with her. If he told her too much, she would walk away.
“Do you always frequent pubs during the day?” she asked.
“I could ask the same of you. Have you no husband?”
Anyone with any knowledge of werewolves knew why she frequented the pub during the day. She was looking for some afternoon delight. In non-wolf form, werewolf women were highly intimate creatures. Contrarily, the males only liked romance while in wolf form.
“He’s working at the Wolf Chow plant.”
“I see,” Stelan smiled and signaled the bartender to refresh their drinks. “So your husband is out toiling to earn a wage and you’re in here seeking a…treat?”
Her ears perked up.
It had taken Stelan quite some time to get used to werewolf dirty-talk. Sayings like, “Who wants a bone?” and “Who wants to go for a ride?” could have more than one meaning in the land of Yezan.
Another lesson he’d learned was to keep his gear handy. He always had a stash of novelty items in the event of need. He had two squeak toys, a frayed rope for playing tug-o-war, and a leash, just in case. There were some surprisingly freakish werewolves that he’d been with over the years.
“My room is just upstairs,” he said after taking another sip.
“Is that so?”
“Yes, and let me just say that—”
“Bumache,” interrupted a husky voice.
Stelan glanced over his shoulder and saw one of the royal guard standing there.
“I’m rather in the midst of something right now,” Bumache said.
“Larkin’s asking for you.”
“The King?” said the woman with a sense of awe.
“Indeed,” Stelan said off-handedly, fighting hard to keep his calm visage. “Is it urgent?”
The guard grunted. “King Larkin summons you and you ask if it’s urgent?”
Stelan sighed.
“I do apologize, my lady. Maybe some other time.”
“Does this mean I don’t get a treat?”
Stelan kissed her hand and bid her adieu.
As they walked out of the pub, the guard shook his head and spat.
“You’re disgusting, Bumache.”
“To each his own,” Stelan said with a grin. “To each his own.”
BURT
The night had been long and the sun was threatening to crest the horizon at any moment. That meant it was time for sleep, and Paulie had no intention of leaving a filthy dog to roam his house unsupervised.
After getting the majority of dirt specks off the wall, Paulie turned his attention to cleaning the dog. It was obvious that Mr. Biscuits hadn’t wanted to get into the bathtub as he’d put up a bit of a struggle, but as soon as Paulie grabbed the broom again, the mutt became much more cooperative.
“Mr. Biscuits,” Paulie said, after rinsing off a second round of suds, “I believe we’ve gotten the majority of dirt out of your fur. Now, I’m just going to have to wash up your private area and then we’ll get you nice and dry.”
Paulie cringed, as the dog did have a rather large set of danglers. He slipped on the glove that he used for washing dishes, took a deep breath, shuddered, and reached forward.
Mr. Biscuits turned his head back and gave Paulie a very odd look.
“Let’s just get this over with, shall we?”
Paulie picked up the soft brush he had been using when he heard, “pffft,” which was immediately followed by a noisome scent.
“How rude,” Paulie said with a laugh. “It seems those biscuits have your stomach a bit upset…”
He looked up and froze.
Mr. Biscuits was no longer Mr. Biscuits.
In place of the mangy mutt was instead a fully-grown human male. He was in the same position that Mr. Biscuits had just been in, and his eyes were identical, but the floppy ears were gone and so was the soaked fur.
“Uh, buddy,” the guy said, “I don’t know who you are or what I’m doing in your bathtub, but I’d really appreciate it if you’d let go of my balls.”
Paulie gazed down at his hand and immediately let go.
Then he jumped back and slammed into the wall, pulled off the glove, and threw it across the room in disgust.
His mind was racing.
He looked around for a weapon of some sort. There was the broom, which had worked wonders on the dog, but something told him it would be ineffective in this situation.
He took a deep breath.
“Who are you?” Paulie asked shakily.
“I don’t know,” the guy replied, looking even more frightened than Paulie felt.
“How did you get in here?”
“Seriously, I don’t know!”
“Oh no,” Paulie said as the pieces of the puzzle fell into place. The perfect skin, the muscular build, the fact that the man was a dog just moments before…It all led up to the same thing. “You’re a werewolf.”
“I am?”
“What else could you be? For the last couple of hours you’ve been eating out of my trashcan, sleeping on my couch and bed, and you even left a nice little package in one of my corners, thank you very much.”
“Do you know my name?”
“Up until about two minutes ago, you were Mr. Biscuits.”
“Is that my actual name?”
Paulie squinted at him. “What do you think?”
The man raised his eyebrows briefly and then turned away with a grimace.
“So you have no memory of who you are or anything?” asked Paulie.
“Nothing.”
“How long have you been a werewolf?”
“I didn’t even know I was one until just now.”
“Hmmm,” said Paulie as he thought back to a Viq Broadcasting System (VBS) special he had seen on werewolves. It was some years ago, but he recalled that those freshly infected with Werewolfism were unable to recall anything about their previous lives for the first few months.
“Must have been pretty recent,” Paulie said. “Do you have any place to go?”
“To use your previous question: What do you think?”
“Right,” Paulie said. “Well, you can’t stay here.”
Paulie saw that same look in the man’s eyes that Mr. Biscuits had given him when the rain had begun to fall.
Why did these things always happen to him? Because he was a nice guy, that’s why. At least that’s what people had always told him. “You gotta be tougher, Paulie,” they’d say. “The world will eat you up if you’re soft.” Tougher to them meant being mean and that just wasn’t Paulie’s style.
“Okay, look,” Paulie said slowly. “I’ll get you a robe and I’ll do a little research online to see what I can find out about your, um, kind. Then I’ll head out and pick you up some clothes from the Orcmart down the street.”
“I have no money,” the man said.
“Obviously,” Paulie replied as he walked to his closet to get a robe. “Where would you have kept it?”
“Well—”
“Let’s not go there, Mr. Biscuits,” said Paulie, after returning and handing the man the robe. “Actually, calling you Mr. Biscuits is kind of odd now. How about Burt?”
Comedic Fantasy Bundle #1: 4 Hilarious Adventures (Tales from the land of Ononokin) Page 21