Hairy Palms

You know, I could just kill Michael J. friggin’ Fox. Bad enough to discover your family’s history of lycanthropy on your fourteenth birthday without all those damn Teen Wolf movies dancing around in your head just mocking you. As if menstruating wasn’t enough gore for my adolescence, I get all furry and shit too. You do know that no amount of Nair gets hair off your palms.

My subnormal cousin Ed referred to our “Werewolfism” with relish, constantly speculating on the “ventures” we would have once we learned a bit of control in our four legged form. He was also looking forward to possibly joining the high school basketball team, perhaps “wolvin out” in mid game (damn you MJF).

Unfortunately on our first transformation there was a bit of an incident. The elders don’t hold me responsible for his death. After all had we been adequately supervised the puppyish play fight never would have turned deadly serious… Poor Eddy never would have had his throat torn out.

What can I say? The moon made me do it.

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