So if you ever meet a girl with straw-blond hair and a smile to die for, a bright enthusiastic girl with a penchant for statistics, and maybe you are attracted to her and maybe you aren't, but you think you would like to get to know her better; well, before you ask her name, think for a moment about whether you want to burden of knowledge that will go with it. And if she smiles at you and says her name is Control, and that it's a funny story, then you are lost, and all I ask is that you never tell me how she's doing.
This story originally appeared on Scott Alexander's blog in 2011.
Scott Alexander is a psychiatrist in Detroit, Michigan. He currently blogs at slatestarcodex.com.
Howl!
Jody Lynn Nye
BRADLEY NEWTON TURNED ONE of the silver objects over in his hands. The eastern European man with shiny black hair and a pockmarked face slumping in the naugahyde armchair on the other side of the utilitarian desk looked deliberately insouciant. Bradley wanted to wipe that smirk off his face, and off the lawyer's, too. He kept his own round face expressionless.
"So, Mr. Elanovitch is willing to pay whatever fine you assess, inspector," the attorney offered. "We maintain that he did not understand that his import of these items was considered to be excessive."
"Import? Smuggling is the word I would use, counselor," Bradley retorted. That jerked the European man to attention, but only for a moment. He was not threatened by the plump inspector on the other side of the desk. Bradley picked up another silver artifact from the heap before him, this one long and thin like a fountain pen, but with a knob shaped like a snail shell on the top. "Customs and Excise is vigilant about these things. Your client has lived in the United States for six years, and traveled in and out of the country over twenty-eight times a year. He must know the limits on imports. If he never read form I-94, then he's one of the few who hasn't."
"Fine me and release my goods," Elanovitch intoned, bored, plucking at the armrest with idle fingertips. "Either you arrest me, or you don't. We offer to pay. Take it or leave it. Or unless you want something for yourself, eh?" His weaselly black eyes fixed on Bradley's hazel ones. "Your annual pay is probably much less than my business makes in a day."
That made Bradley's blood pressure shoot up, but he kept his temper down. His supervisor and at least one other credible witness were on the other side of the two-way mirror that occupied much of the fourth wall in a largely featureless interview room, and the interview was being recorded on videotape. If they made him react, they won, and they knew it. "Bribing a federal official is a felony," he said, shaking the knobby cylinder at Elanovitch. "This is a serious matter, and…ouch!"
He looked down at his hand. Blood dripped from the web of skin between his thumb and forefinger. A curved, triangular blade no longer than his thumbnail had popped out of the bottom of the silver artifact. He snatched out his handkerchief and squeezed the area to stop the bleeding. The blade had left a crescent-shaped mark in the skin. He looked up at the horrified men on the other side of the table. "The importation of concealed weapons is another crime, Mr. Elanovitch."
"I did not know that was there!" the European bellowed, actually alarmed. "It is an accident! Nothing I bring in is illegal. It is household instruments, historical of age. I pay fine and I get you bandage. I even say please."
"We won't debate the extenuating circumstances," the lawyer interjected, "if we may settle this matter swiftly, without the government bringing charges?"
"What about physical assault on a government agent?" Bradley countered.
"That's just an owie, inspector," the lawyer said. "A little Bactine and a Scooby-Doo Band-Aid will make you all better. What will it take to get us out of here before dinnertime?"
Bradley realized, not for the first time, that he disliked the lawyer much more than his client. He wanted to break out of his own skin, leap over the desk and throttle the attorney, then hammer the importer to death with his own suitcase of contraband. If it wouldn't punish him more than the other two, he would have kept them there until midnight.
"I can't promise that there will be no charges pressed in the future, but this time United States customs is willing to accept a substantial fine, plus the customs on each item over the legal allowance." Coolly, he pulled the printing calculator to him from the side of the desk and began to tap in numbers. Large numbers. This fine would be substantial, partly to make Elanovitch think a thousand times before doing it again, and partly because his attorney was such a jerk. It was the only revenge he was permitted to take.
BRADLEY HUNCHED OVER the wheel of his subcompact in the traffic leaving O'Hare Airport. Another day, another criminal who thought of him as a patsy. He had worked for Customs for fifteen years. At forty-two, he had twenty-three years more before he could retire. Another 54.7 percent of his life facing the same endless conflict with petty criminals, the pugnaciously ignorant and the downright exploitive criminals who passed before him day after day after day.
Bradley walked into the house and almost called out before he remembered that Angela was in Columbus with the kids, visiting her folks. They would be gone for a week. It was spring break. A twinge of regret made him ache for the carefree college days and just after when the two of them had been able to run off to Florida during spring break. For the hell of it. Just for fun. It seemed like nothing he did these days was just for fun. Not even sex. Even sex was getting to be boring. The relic of the teenager buried deep within him was shocked. He never in a million lifetimes thought he would ever feel that way, and he loved Angie. He adored her. It didn't stop the miserable cycle of his day-to-day life from grinding him down.
Over a dinner made up of leftovers from the refrigerator, he watched the Discovery Channel on television. He felt like going away from it all, leaving the suburbs and his boring job and becoming a deep-sea fisherman. On television pulling up cages full of king crabs looked dangerous, disgusting, cold, and terrifying. All of that was better than what he had to do now. Pull in a half-ton net with his bare hands? Great! As long as he didn't have to enumerate each crab on a form in triplicate.
"It's a midlife crisis," he told himself, as he sorted the recyclables from the non-recyclable trash and threw them into separate garbage bins. "That's all."
Knowing that was his problem didn't help. He had always laughed off the notion he might have a midlife crisis, but it was worse than he had dreamed. He thought he would just have an urge to buy a red sports car and hang out with a blonde half his age, but there was no joyful anticipation in the prospect. He felt gloomy to the depths of his soul. Was this what he was going to do for the rest of his life? He wished he could talk to Angela, but even more, he wished she could understand what he was going through.
Three more days of Elanovitches, TV dinners and missing his family dragged by. Bradley didn't like sleeping alone. He missed the kids. He missed the noise and the chaos and the feeling that he belonged to something better than he was.
He woke with a start and scanned the bed for Angela's familiar body that ought to have been there beside him, half-curled on her side under the light quilt, warm and comforting by her mere presence. She wasn't there. He remembered again. Three more days until his family returned. Soon. He tried to settle down, but he was too restless. It felt as if the sheet was rucked up under his rear end. He wriggled to settle the lump. It wouldn't smooth out.
The light of the full moon shone between the bedroom curtains he had forgotten to close before he fell asleep. He kicked off the comforter. He had to get out of the bedclothes. They were stifling, smothering him in their pillowy bonds. Bradley fumbled for the bedroom light.
"Aah!" he yelled.
Someone was in the room with him!
"Who are you?" he screamed at the black-bearded man.
The other's mouth moved at the same time his did. The intruder was wearing his boxer shorts! He realized suddenly that he was looking at his own reflection.
"No!" Bradley cried. He must be still dreaming. He slapped his hands a
gainst his body, refusing to believe in the black hair that covered him everywhere except his eyes, lips and palms, wiry and coarse as a terrier's. He flung himself off the bed, trying to run away from his horrible image, but it seemed that the whole house was full of mirrors and shiny surfaces. The hairy man leaped out at him again and again. Bradley stumbled down the stairs, through the living room and the kitchen, and out into the night.
He had to get away from the nightmare. Something must help him to wake up. He raced along the street, covering ground faster than he ever could in the daylight. Bradley looked down to see curving claws between his toes. His feet looked twice as long as usual. Something slapped him in the backside. He glanced behind, and saw a two-foot-long tail.
Run away! his brain shrieked.
He plunged in between houses, crashing through bushes and trees, trampling garden plots. Blue-flowered stalks grabbed at his legs in the Sullivans' yard. Why were there hydrangeas in his dream? He hated hydrangeas!
The beam of the streetlight at the corner struck glints off the shining hair on his hands and arms. To get away from the sight, he dashed across the street and into the forest preserve.
Part of his mind shouted at him that the preserve closed at sunset. Trespassing on state land wasn't allowed. The rest of him, the wild part, laughed at restraint. It forced him to open up his stride, until he was running flat out across the prairie. He panted in terror, gasping in oxygen until it felt as if the top of his head would come off. His legs carried him faster and faster. He started laughing. The pure adrenaline exhilarated him. He felt giddy. He dropped to all fours and discovered he could gallop still faster, leaping over streams and paths, bounding over benches. Bradley found an open patch of grass and rolled around on it. That felt good! He flipped over and ran in a circle, chasing the tail. It eluded his snapping jaws.
What had happened to him? What was he?
All he could think over and over again was werewolf. The spooky books his son loved to read at night talked about mystical transformation, the fear of silver bullets, and how the man-wolf beast howled at the moon.
Maybe he had turned into a werewolf, but he wouldn't do that.
He paused, the tail swinging out of reach.
Why not?
Bradley sat down on his haunches, cleared his throat, pointed his nose toward the moon, and launched into the best howl he could muster.
"A-woo—ha ha ha ha!"
The mournful sound was so at odds with how good he felt that he started laughing in the middle of it. He pulled himself together.
No, seriously, he told himself. Howl. He took another breath.
"A-wooooo!"
That was better. With a little practice, he could be really good at it.
His legs began to twitch. His altered body got impatient at sitting in one place. He had to run some more. Flipping onto his long feet, he ran, loving every mile. He thought he could never grow tired of the joy of the wind in his face. No wonder dogs with their heads hanging out of car windows looked so happy.
He suddenly knew the secret they never talked about in any of the horror movies or TV shows or books. Being a werewolf was So. Much. FUN!
Bradley sped up a hill, his pads pounding on the dirt path. A browsing deer he surprised leaped up and away from him. The scent excited him. He fell into pursuit, racing after its shape in the cold blue moonlight. He had an urge to bury his teeth in its throat. He wanted the taste of its blood on his tongue.
The deer wasn't waiting around to satisfy his urges. It increased its lead on him by lengths, leaping effortlessly over park benches and around the reeking outhouses. Bradley galloped, his tail straight out behind him. He never realized how fast deer could run. He gave it all he could, even pulling within ten feet of it, but the deer took a sharp left and dashed across the well-lit main road next to the forest preserve. Bradley windmilled to stay upright as he veered to follow, but headlights struck him. He got off the road just in time. A pickup truck roared past him, honking its horn in irritation. The deer disappeared into the trees on the other side. Bradley watched it go. The wild part of him felt dismay.
He tottered back into the woods. He was more exhausted than he could have believed. It had been years since he had gone running. He preferred to jog on the treadmill or around the track at the health club, at no more than 3.5 miles an hour. He was exhausted, and his feet and palms hurt. Gingerly, Bradley picked his way back to a park bench and curled up underneath it in the comforting dark.
Just a short rest, he told himself.
"Awright, mister!" a harsh voice roused him out of sleep. "I suppose you're gonna tell me your prescription medications make you sleepwalk, huh? Get up!"
Bradley blinked at a pink sky and a black silhouette shining a yellow circle of light in his face. He tried to remember where he was and failed. The police officer grabbed him by the arm and hauled him to his feet. Bradley realized with a start that the black fur that had covered him was gone. As was most of the pair of underpants he had been wearing when he left home. Modesty was just barely preserved by the scrap of cloth around his belly. The rest of his shorts had been torn to shreds by the bushes. His skin was covered with scratches and bruises.
"I'm all right, officer," he said, straightening his back to try and look dignified. The officer eyed him. Obviously, he failed.
"Don't need to go to the emergency room?" the officer asked. "Did someone dump you here?"
"Uh, no," Bradley said. "I…uh, sometimes I sleepwalk," he added. The policeman shook his head as though disappointed he hadn't come up with a more colorful explanation. Bradley wished he sounded more original, but he didn't want to be branded a kook. No one would believe he had been transformed into a werewolf. In the cold light of dawn, he didn't completely believe it himself.
"Come on," the officer sighed. "Get in the cruiser. I'll take you home."
Bradley let himself in the unlocked back door and took a long, hot shower. It was a good thing his wife and kids weren't there. They might have bought the werewolf explanation, but Angela would have been mortified that he had to be brought home by the cops.
The matter of his transformation distracted him throughout the day. He was pretty sure that lycanthropy didn't run in his family. He hadn't eaten or drunk anything unusual, unless he counted a couple of exotic frozen entrées from the food store. He'd never had a reaction to Chicken Madras before, especially not breaking out in fur and a tail. No, the only possible vector of transmission of his werewolfness had to be that artifact that cut him. Mr. Elanovitch's contraband. He wanted to get a second look at it.
Casually, so as not to draw special attention to his query, Bradley checked the confiscated goods locker first thing the next morning. To his disappointment, all the Elanovitch articles were gone. The importer's lawyer had reclaimed everything as soon as the customs office had opened. Bradley hesitated to contact the importer. He couldn't think of a good excuse. He didn't want to seem weak by bringing up the minor injury, nor appear to be asking for the artifact as a bribe. The object didn't seem to have had an on/off switch anyhow, nor did it have a plainly visible 'reverse werewolf curse' setting on it. Bradley wished he could find out more about it. His practical mind pushed all speculation to the rear. Flights had been arriving since before dawn from foreign countries. He had a backlog of queries to cover.
The memory of the night's adventure kept his spirits up as he faced a dozen Mr. Elanovitches over the course of the day. They all lied to him. They all acted cocky and bored. He was forbidden by the rules to threaten them. They frustrated him because they enjoyed being dishonest, enjoyed making an illicit profit off the government that protected them. They laughed at him, a plump, middle-aged man, and at the United States of America that employed him to help protect its economy. Bradley concentrated on doing his job. He just kept thinking of that rush of air in his face. More than once, he caught himself smiling a little. The expression unnerved more than one of his opponents on the other side of the desk. If they coul
d only have seen him, he thought, imagining the terrified look on their faces. Pay your fine, he imagined his employers saying, or our werewolf will rip out your throat. That would make it worthwhile getting up in the morning again.
He couldn't wait for the evening.
Bradley gulped down his TV dinner hot right out of the microwave, not even bothering to sit down. Eagerly, he watched for moonrise. As the orange edge of the pocked, full globe peered up over the horizon, Bradley felt his ears prick up. Literally. He felt them with his fingertips as the rounded pinnae stretched up and became pointed. He ran to the mirror to watch. Fur sprouted all over his skin from five o'clock shadow to bearskin rug in moments. His teeth turned to fangs in a long, underslung jaw. His hands and feet lengthened noticeably, and the tail pressed against the back of his underwear. Bradley lowered the band to make way for it. He was going to have to have special shorts with a hole for the tail. His chest bulged forward, and his waist curved in against his spine. He patted the new convexity with delight.
This time he was aware of the animal nature trying to impose its will on his human senses. The stale smells of the house made him feel claustrophobic. The walls seemed to move in on him, trapping him. He wanted the sweet scent of the woods. Before he knew it, he was racing for the back door on all fours. He had to reach up to turn the knob, then he was out across the back yard into the leaf-dappled twilight.
Bradley had never had an athlete's physique before. It felt as good as it looked. He ran faster than Michael Johnson or any Olympic star. He would give up everything if he could do this night after night forever. He dashed all over the neighborhood until the moon was at its height, dousing everything in pale blue light.
The scents were everywhere. They overpowered his conscious mind. He tasted the smell of warm blood on the air. Living animals were all around him. He wanted something—no, craved it. He wanted to feel life. He wanted to feel it between his hands, between his teeth, tearing the heart out of a living creature. Part of him was horrified, but it was overtaken by the wild sensation of the forbidden. What could they do to him? He was power incarnate! He would have prey!
Funny Horror (Unidentified Funny Objects Annual Anthology Series of Humorous SF/F) Page 17