by Terry Yates
“So what do ya’ think? Ya’ think she’ll make it till the next full moon?” Simon asked before picking the huge man up off of the floor by his armpits. “I wish I could stay around and find out, but ‘gotta fly’ as the feller once said.”
With this, he put the man’s head through the plaster ceiling.
“Ya’ see anything up there?” Simon called up.
He heard a slight groan from the floor above. He took the man’s torso and gave it one hard twist until he thought he heard a snap from the man’s neck.
“You still alive up there, Buddy?”
Simon heard the man’s bowels go, then jumped back.
“Yep,” he said looking at the man’s waste splattering the floor. “I reckon your dead. What do they feed you boys around here?”
Simon heard footsteps running up the stairs. Someone must’ve heard something. He closed and locked the door before walking to the window. He opened the drapes, looked out, and through the L.A. smog, he saw his beautiful mother. She was small, round, and yellow tonight.
Simon lit a cigarette that one of the hookers had in her purse, and took a long drag. He heard several voices on the landing, now trying to open the door.
“I love L.A.,” Simon said softly, taking one last, deep, drag, just as the door was giving way.
Outside, on the sidewalk, the patrons waiting to get into the club, heard a loud howl from above them, soon followed by the shattering of glass as the window exploded outward. The force of the impact when the werewolf that was Simon Shoals landed on the concrete below caused several future club patrons, valets, and doormen, to fall over. One unfortunate male club wannabe had been flattened by the creature when it hit the ground.
The beast began clawing at the air, immediately removing heads and limbs in the process. Screaming patrons began to run in all directions. One valet wasn’t quick enough. The werewolf grabbed one of his feet as he tried to run away. It swung the screaming valet in a circle by his foot before slamming him through the windshield of an oncoming car. Like the night before, the monster stood out in the middle of the street and howled a long, loud, terrifying howl. But unlike the night before, the howl was answered by dozens of other howls, coming from all directions and all distances. The whole of East L.A. was alive with the sound of newborn lycanthropes. The howls were soon followed by screams of pain and fear coming from all directions and all distances. Whatever psychosis lived inside Simon Shoals during the daylight, remained inside him, but was magnified by a thousand now. He/It no longer thought like a human, but its instincts still loved chaos and carnage. He/It thrived on it. Two soulless beings inside one body, both with an appetite for destruction. If the Simon part were conscious at that moment, he would be screaming “Yee-haw!” at the top of his lungs.
The werewolf raised its snout to the sky and let out one more long howl, which was again followed by many more. Suddenly, the beast heard a loud bang, quickly followed by pain in its side and shoulder. It looked over at the club and saw two of the male two-leggers, both dressed alike, again hurling small, hot, fire rocks at it. This time, one of the hot rocks missed it, but the other hit it in the jowl. Frightened, screaming people were running in all directions as the werewolf stormed up to the two goons, who had by now achieved the same “What the fuck?” expression that No Neck had just before he died. The expressions didn’t last long for one of the thugs’ head was removed from his shoulders with a single, but forceful sideswipe to the side of the man’s face. The other goon managed to put another bullet into the monster, this one hitting it in the neck, the force knocking it backwards five feet, but not knocking it down. It grabbed its neck, growled, then slowly turned its yellow eyes down at the goon, who upon seeing that his .44 had little or no effect on the beast, turned to run, but barely made the pivot before the werewolf reached its claws out and clamped them down on top of the man’s head, almost knocking him senseless. The beast pulled the thug to him and bit down on the back of his head. Blood spurted out in all direction as the man screamed for his life. The monster loved this big one…the wriggling…the fighting. This two-legger’s fear, sweat, and blood, tasted sweet to the werewolf. If a werewolf could have a favorite drink, it was coming out of this guy’s head.
The creature dropped the goon’s body to the ground, looked up at the sky again and howled. But this wasn’t the ‘normal’ ‘usual’ werewolf howl. This was El Hombre Lobo! The new king! The Big Kahuna! The Big Dog! This howl was loud and long like the usual howl, but this one was higher in pitch and louder in volume, and was a signal…the signal…from Simon Shoals/The Lobo, telling his new pack to run wild in the streets.
CHAPTER 64
“Goddammit,” the Hollywood producer muttered.
“I told you, Marvin. I told you!”
“Shut up, Rose. I’ll take care of this.”
“I told you to let me drive.”
“I’m not drunk. Now shut up, and let me do the talking. If you open your big yap, I’ll be doing hard time.”
The police lights were blinding him through the rear view mirror. He unsnapped his safety belt and reached into his slacks pocket to retrieve his wallet. As he did, he saw the interior light of the police car come on, so he knew that the officer was getting out. He took his license from the wallet just as the officer reached the window.
“Good evening,” the officer bade them. The cop looked no older than twenty-six or twenty-seven, and his smile told the producer that this man, like everyone else in L.A., was an actor. “Could I see your license please?” the officer asked, his toothy smile lighting up the night. “How are you folks tonight?” he asked as the Producer handed him his license.
“Just fine, Officer,” he answered, attempting his best sincere smile, but having little luck. He was a Hollywood producer who would still be one this time next year and well into the future. He had produced a remake of Twelve Angry Men-Starring Tom Cruise, Sean Penn, Clint Eastwood, Harvey Keitel, Robert DeNiro, Joe Pesci, (Naturally) Ice Cube, Ice-T, and a few up and comers.
He had also produced the remake of The Dirty Dozen with Bruce Miller in the Lee Marvin role, and of course, his Oscar winning remake of The Magnificent Seven, starring Jean Renault as Chris, and Warwick Davis as Chico.
It’d been a while since he’d had a hit, but he’d made his money. He and his wife had just been thrown an anniversary party. Twenty-five years of hell in Hollywood. Every sixty-something producer or director could get some young side tang, but not him…no…Rose Kirsch, nee-Rosemary Kesselbaum of The Bronx, New York, the typical 60’s J.A.P. who, if she wasn’t constantly in his office for some reason of other, was calling him every five minutes reminding him of this party or that function. He didn’t have time for chasing tail. Even if he did, he couldn’t enjoy it. He would keep waiting for Rose to come popping out from under the bed to ask him if he was wearing a condom.
The cop bade them to stay right there until he came back, which was in a little more than three or four minutes.
“Could you step out of the car, please, Sir?” the officer asked.
“Oy’,” muttered the producer as he began to open the door.
“I told you, Marvin! I told him, Officer. Three or four melon balls is your limit, but no…he had to have another two!”
“Shut up! Shut up! Shut up!”
As soon as he got out of the car, he dropped something to the ground.
“Would you mind?” the Producer asked the cop. “I seem to have dropped my SAG card.
The officer bent down and retrieved the white card from the road.
“What’s a SAG card?” the cop asked, handing it back to him.
Oh great, the Producer thought. He gets the only human being on Mulholland Drive who isn’t in show business.
“Nothing,” he muttered back, swaying as he returned the card to his wallet, and then spent the next ten seconds trying to stick the wallet back in his back pocket, but missing the first four attempts.
“Have you been drinking, Sir?”
the cop asked.
“I’ve had two.”
“Two?”
“Yeah.”
“Don’t lie, Marvin. He’s had at least five or I’ll kiss your ass, Officer.
“She’s lying through her teeth, Officer,” he slurred.
“I am not!”
After several seconds of arguing, the police officer put Marvin through the simple field-sobriety test. He didn’t do well following the pen back and forth, and when it came time to lean his head back, close his eyes, stretch his arms out, and then touch his nose with his index finger, he damn near touched the cop’s nose.
Finally, the officer had him walk heel-to-toe on a straight line. As he was red-exing the FST checkboxes, he looked up to see that Marvin had kept walking past the cruiser and into the darkness.
“Sir!” the officer yelled exasperated. “That’s good.”
“You better go get him!” Rose yelled from the car. “Or he’ll walk into the ocean!”
“Sir!”
As the officer begin to follow Marvin, he heard a noise in the darkness. Shit, the old drunk fell. The officer began to pick up his pace. Just as he was about to reach the darkness that Marvin disappeared into, he heard a slight noise. Had it been a growl? Actually it sounded more like a snarl. He was about to put his hand on his gun, when he saw Marvin’s form re-appearing from the shadows. It appeared that something was flying or hovering just above his silhouette. Something bright. Something yellow. The cop’s radio blared to life just as the form, holding the dead producer on its arms, emerged from the darkness.
The Rap Star had been entertaining two extremely young ladies in his outdoor hot tub, when he heard the first howl. His two Doberman Pinchers, Snoop and Manaj, began to emit low growls. Snoop’s hackles were raised.
“Shut up!” the Rap Star told the dog. “Rudy!” he screamed. “Rudy…mother fucker…”
Just as the Rapper was about to exit the pool, Rudy, the Rap Star’s childhood friend and idiot cousin, came out of the house and into the pool area. Rudy was big and a relative, so The Rapper hired him as a body guard. He wasn’t the main bodyguard. Rudy just wasn’t smart enough. Jody was the main bodyguard. Jody was big…not anywhere near Rudy’s size…but unlike Rudy, Jody was smart. Rudy’s IQ was slightly above moron status, but Rudy was loyal and would fight a train, moving or otherwise, if The Rapper told him to.
“Did you hear that?” The Rapper asked him, taking his arm from around one of the girls and setting his wine glass down.
“Hear what?”
“That howling.”
“Yeah, I heard it..”
“Then why did you ask “hear what?”
“I didn’t know you meant the howling.”
“What did you think I meant?”
“I don’t know.”
Another howl ripped through the night, followed by several more coming from all directions. The howling seemed to be a signal for every dog in Beverly Hills to start barking simultaneously.
“Stay!” The Rapper told the dogs who were both trembling.
Another howl tore through the darkness, this one sounding like it was just down the hill.
“Go see what’s going on, Rudy,” The Rapper told him, as he reached back and stroked each dog’s neck, which didn’t seem to be calming either of them. Both of their forelegs were now beginning to slowly move in place, anticipating their master’s signal.
“You want me to go out there?” Rudy asked, nervously pointing behind the large, wooden fence.
“No, mother-fucker, I want the other Rudy to do it!”
“There’s another Rudy?”
“Nigga, get yo’ ass through that gate! Now, mother-fucker, if ya’ please!”
Rudy looked at the fence, then back at The Rapper, then back at the fence, before reaching into his jacket to make sure he remembered his gun. Hoping for a reprieve, Rudy gave one last look toward The Rapper, straightened his jacket, cleared his throat, and then began to walk toward the gate. As he put his hand on the wooden gate, another howl came that sounded only a few hundred yards away. Rudy opened the gate, gave one last nervous glance at The Rapper, then walked through it, leaving it open behind him.
“Close the…dumb mother-fucker,” The Rapper muttered.
“Why do you keep him around?” asked one of the Nubian nubiles.
“I told you…he’s my cousin,” The Rapper answered, looking back at both dogs, who were both staring at the open gate.
“Fire him,” chimed in the other girl. “That’ll leave you with one less cell phone bill to deal with.”
“Yeah, that’ll leave me with only forty-two, yours included, Ho’.”
The Rapper reached back over his shoulder again to check the dogs, who were both still trembling. Although every dog in the Hollywood Hills was barking, his weren’t. They knew better. He had trained them well. They did not move or even make a sound without his permission. Something out there had them spooked.
In the distance, they heard police sirens…lots of them. They hadn’t done anything. It was probably Dr. Boo-Foo or Li’l Ju. Those niggers were always getting in some kind of shit…either them or their psychotic entourages. HE was smarter than that. He kept his people under his thumb. His people weren’t allowed to get fucked up until the workday was over, then he didn’t give a shit.
“What’s going on out there?” he yelled at Rudy. “Do you see anything?”
“No…it’s dark.”
“You don’t see anything?”
“No, just a bunch of pretty, yellow fireflies. Looks like they’re moving this way.”
“Here you go, Baby,” one of the girl’s told the Rap Star.
She had gotten out of the hot tub and retrieved a small plate entirely covered in cocaine, and handed it down to the Rap Star, who took the plate without so much as a thank you or even a drop dead. He thanked no one. He paid all of these motherfuckers well. Most of them didn’t earn any thanks anyway. None of them did shit, but hang on.
“Still seeing those big yellow fireflies?” he laughed after taking one large toot.
The trio was startled when they heard the big splash in the pool, the splash back drenching them all, several drops landing in the cocaine.
“Mother Fucker!” The Rapper screamed getting out of the pool, handing the plate to one of the girls. “That better not be a fuckin’ cinder block!” he screamed toward the roof. Several times, he had caught people bumpin’ uglies in his pool. He always kept a cinder block on the roof of the mansion for just such occasions, and would shimmy up to the roof, take the cinder block, and throw it in the pool. The huge splash would have everyone drenched and screaming. He knew it was childish, but he didn’t give a shit. It was his motherfuckin’ mansion. He’d do whatever he wanted.
He half ran, half tiptoed over to the pool, twice almost falling. When he reached the pool, he saw something floating close to the light. He guessed it wasn’t a cinder block. He walked over to the light and looked down into the pool. The Rapper wanted to scream when he saw Rudy’s lifeless face staring back at him. One eye was missing and part of the cheek was torn, but there was no doubt about the blank expression, it was Rudy.
“Shit!” he screamed.
The word had barely left his lips when he thought he heard a noise that sounded like a growl. He looked over at the dogs, who were both still but about to come unglued, their hackles standing straight up. The Rapper was just about to give the dogs their red light, when he heard another noise. Looking up into the darkness, he saw something white flying through the air. It was too dark to see what the object was until it crashed down on the wooden fence. It was Rudy’s decapitated body, impaled on the fence, the pointed wooden slats sticking through his back and coming out through his stomach.
The Rap Star stood wide-eyed as the fence began to teeter. The stress of trying to hold up Rudy’s three hundred pounds-plus caused the fence to begin to teeter inward, the sound of the boards cracking loudly. Finally, the fence collapsed, causing Rudy
’s corpse to go headless-over-heels into the swimming pool, his splash back completely drenching everyone. The Rap Star hadn’t moved though. He stood staring at the gap where that chunk of the fence used to be. The girls screaming caused him to finally come to his senses. He looked over at the dogs, who were looking back at him as if they were about to revolt. If the master didn’t give them the signal soon, they were going to take it upon themselves to go into “We’re getting out here, Boss. You can beat us later,” mode.
“Get ‘em!” he screamed at the dogs, who didn’t need to be told twice.
The dogs’ claws scratched the wet cement as the raced around the pool and out of the gap in the fence. The Rap Star slip-slid over to the deck area and pushed the intercom button.
“Get out here, you worthless mother-fuckers!” he screamed into the intercom.
The Rap Star reached behind the bar and retrieved a pistol. He’d barely cocked it when the sliding glass door opened, and out fell over a dozen stoned and coked up bodyguards, and several half-naked women of all ethnicities.
“What the hell, R.S.!” Jody yelled, his eyes wide and unfocused from having recently snorted a line of cocaine so big, that it could’ve easily been mistaken for a hash mark on a football field. He, along with the other goons, had their pistols out.
“What’s happening? Look in the pool!” The Rap Star answered angrily.
“Why?”
“Just look in the motherfuckin’ pool, Nigga!”
Jody stepped up to the pool and looked down.
“Shit! It’s Rudy!”
“Thank you.”
“What happened?”
“What happened is…the motherfucker’s dead, and something out there got him…so move!”
The Rap Star stood with the half-naked ladies who were all on the verge of hysteria. He was getting worried because he hadn’t heard a sound from the dogs. When they went after something, they let the whole neighborhood know about it.
