by Jeff Strand
"I don't recall that."
"I guess I was being too subtle, then. We were both victims."
"Correction. I was no victim. I had George and Lou exactly where I wanted them the entire time. There's evidence of this back at the tavern we just left. How many people do you think I killed? Guess."
"Six."
"Higher."
"Twelve."
"Lower."
"Ten."
"Lower."
"Nine."
"This is going to take all night," said Ivan. "I killed seven people. Murdered two people earlier today, for a twenty-four hour total of nine so far. Messed Lou up in a big way. Shredded two cops. Got a lady shot. Let two people go on purpose, and believe me, that's the only reason they're not dead."
"What about George?"
"I didn't kill him yet."
"Why not?"
"He comes later. Got to save the good stuff. Are you impressed by the seven people I killed at the tavern?"
"Sure."
"I think you're just humoring me. I'll bet you've never killed nine human beings in a day. I bet you haven't even killed two. Am I right?"
"You're right."
"You know what sucks about the number nine? It's not a monumental number. Nobody celebrates the ninth anniversary of something. It's all about those nice round numbers. That's what people like. If I went around telling everybody that my body count for today was nine, they'd be amazed by my awesomeness, of course, but they'd feel that something was missing. It just wasn't quite at the next level. You can't really have a party for nine. Do you see what I'm saying? Can you think of any possible way for me to fix my little quandary with the whole number thing?"
"Just lie and say you killed ten."
"Hmmmm. I never thought about that. I hate to be deceptive, though. There has to be a better way. Thinking...thinking...thinking..."
"Do you really want people to know about your feat?"
"I like that you called it a feat. I figured you'd feel a little more revulsion than that."
Michele ignored him and tried to steer the conversation back toward reasons he shouldn't kill her. "I could have run away. They let me go."
"You did run away. I found you at the hospital."
"I had a chance before that. I stuck around because I want to tell this story."
"Is that so?"
"Yeah."
"So, what, you want to write The Dastardly Deeds of Ivan the Werewolf?"
"Something like that."
"Or maybe Interview With a Werewolf. Let Anne Rice sue."
"If you let me go, I'll make you famous."
"If I wanted to be famous, I'd walk onto Oprah's set and transform in front of her cameras. Then I'd rip out her throat. I appreciate your efforts, Michele, but there's really not much you can offer me."
"I disagree."
Ivan smiled. "Well, I mean, there's that. You like it wolfy style?"
Michele felt the blood drain from her face, but tried to keep her voice steady. "Why are your aspirations so low?"
"What do you mean?"
"You have this incredible power, something that's so amazing that nobody who hadn't seen it for themselves would ever believe it could be true, and yet you just use it to kill people."
"Killing people is fun. It's better than not killing people, I'll tell you that."
"There's so much more you could do."
"Like what? Bring canned food to homeless people? Teach our children about the wonders of volcanoes?"
"You could be a superstar celebrity. How much earning potential do you think a werewolf in the public eye could have?"
"A lot, until somebody put a silver bullet in his heart."
"There are plenty of rich celebrities who a lot of people want to assassinate and they do just fine. With that much money, you could keep yourself safe."
"I've got it! Maybe I could be a superhero!"
"Maybe you could."
"I could be Werewolf Man, and I'd go around biting evildoers. I could wear a furry cape with a big W on it. Oh, man, I never even dreamed I had so much untapped potential. You've opened up a whole new world for me. How can I ever repay you?"
"I'm serious, Ivan."
"Are you trying to become my manager or something?"
"Maybe."
"I think you're talking just to keep yourself alive. I think you're too adorable and innocent to actually want to go into business with a big bad werewolf, who would probably ruin all of his promo ops by going on bloody rampages."
"That's not true."
"You're certainly an opportunist. I admire that. But, again, let's say for the sake of argument that I was interested in your idea. Maybe I looked in the mirror one day and said 'Golly, I've devoted my whole life to evil. How shameful. Woe is me for my poor decisions. I must balance out all of the death and destruction by doing good deeds.'"
"I didn't say they had to be good deeds."
"You mean I should become a supervillain? Now that might be cool."
"You're not taking me seriously."
"What's a good name for a werewolf supervillain?"
"Ivan..."
"What about Wolf Killer? No, wait, that sounds like I'm killing wolves. Death Wolf. Blood Wolf. Ghost Wolf. I'm not really a ghost, but that sounds kind of scary, doesn't it? Beware the evil done by the Ghost Wolf. Oh, hell yeah."
"I'm trying to help you."
"No, but thanks. You really aren't very good at trying to negotiate yourself out of death. The only thing I might need you for is a sweet piece of ass."
"If you try it, I'll rip your dick off."
"There's no need to be crude. You could have just said 'penis.'"
"I'm serious."
"Are you? Do you really think that I'm afraid of you? With all the people I've slaughtered today, you expect me to be worried about you injuring my wee-wee?"
"If it gets anywhere near me, you'll lose it. I promise you that."
"See, now, you almost had me convinced to go along with your idea about cashing in on my werewolf fame, but then you had to go and threaten my genitalia. Rude, rude, rude. And yet, strangely arousing."
"Try it and see what happens."
Ivan laughed. "Relax, sweetheart. There'll be no sexual violence tonight. I'm not the kind of guy who needs to take it by force, if you know what I mean and I think you do. I am going to murder you, though."
Michele clenched her fists. Don't cry, don't cry, don't cry...
"Nothing to say to that? Surprising. Do you want to know how it's going to happen?"
"Okay."
"I love how you tried to sound brave when you said that. Here's the plan: I'm going to pull this van over to someplace nice and secluded. I'm going to search through the radio stations until I find some appropriate mood music--hopefully they've got a jazz station around here, but if not, we might go for some classic rock. Then I'm going to walk back there, open the van doors, and then I'm going to stand there and stare at you. You know that creepy feeling you get when somebody is just staring at you, where your skin crawls and you can't concentrate on anything else? You'll have that, except you'll know that as soon as I'm done staring at you, I'm going to kill you. I might stare at you for a minute, I might stare for an hour, but when it's over, I'm going to very slowly unlock the cage."
"You're making a big mistake."
"No, I think I'm making a wise decision. Don't interrupt my scenario. After I open the cage, I'm going to--"
"I don't want to hear it."
"I don't care what you want to hear, little lady. You're going to hear what I want you to hear, and I want you to hear about your upcoming horrible death. If you want to put your hands over your ears and go 'la la la la la' there's not much I can do, but it would be kind of childish."
"There's no reason to kill me."
"I want to. That's a pretty good reason. I mean, if you really think about it, there's no reason to eat a great big chocolate chip cookie dunked in a glass of cold milk, but it's so
mething you'd want to be doing right now, isn't it? You're my cookie. That's what I'll call you from now on. How's it going, Cookie?"
"Fuck you."
"Oh, see, now you're just resorting to expletives. Not cool, Cookie. I guess that means you're done trying to have an intelligent conversation, which in turn means that it's time for you to die. Oh well."
They drove in silence for a few more minutes. At one point Michele had to choke down some vomit, but she still didn't cry. She refused to cry.
Ivan stopped the van and shut off the engine. "Here we are. Looks like you'll be dying in...actually, I don't know the name of this place. It'll be in the obituary, though. Your family will know."
"You don't have to do this."
"That's already been well established. You're not bringing anything new to the table. Offer me something better than the lame observation that I have a choice in the matter. Come on, offer something now. You've got ten seconds. Nine...eight...seven..."
"I can bring you George and Lou."
"No, you can't."
"Yes, I can."
"Did you bond with them? Got some of that Stockholm syndrome going on, huh? Sorry, Michele--I mean, Cookie--but I feel like I have no other choice but to messily kill you."
Michele's mind raced as she tried to think of something to offer him. But she just couldn't concentrate. She was going to die. Oh, God, she was going to die.
Ivan got out of the van. A moment later he opened the back doors. "Miss me?"
Michele scooted to the back of the cage.
"Don't do that. I'll think you don't trust me." Ivan grinned. He ran a hand through his blood-slicked hair. "How does it feel to know that you only have minutes to live? Wait, don't answer that, let me guess...it feels like...wait, I can get this...it feels bad! Am I right? Do I win?"
Michele didn't respond. If he opened the cage, she'd attack him like a wild animal. She'd probably lose the fight, but she'd go for his eyes with her fingernails and put up a hell of a struggle.
Ivan's grin faded. "You know, I like to joke around a lot, but when it comes right down to it, I'm a pretty serious guy. So let me present you with your options, and I'd like you to truly focus on which one you prefer. The first option is to let me come into that cage after you, at which point I will transform into a wolfman, pin you down, and ruin you." He paused, presumably to let that sink in. "In the second option, I won't kill you at all."
"What do I have to do?"
"Just give me your hand."
"No."
"No? I just offered you the chance to stay alive. Don't dismiss it so quickly."
"What are you going to do?"
"It's a surprise. Give me your hand."
Michele shook her head.
"When I said that I was going to ruin you, I didn't mean that in a 'put you out of your misery' way. You will die worse than anybody you've ever read about. You'll be wishing that all I was doing was ripping out your fingernails with my teeth. We are talking about a level of agony that people base religions on. Is that your choice? Because it seems like a bad one."
Don't cry, don't cry, don't cry...
"You really should give me your hand."
"Come in here and get it."
"So let me get this straight. You are choosing a horrible, bloody death where your body parts will be scattered for miles over the option where you live?"
"I'm not giving you my hand."
"I'm not going to keep it! Jeez. Okay, I'm going to do something that I never do. I solemnly swear that if you give me your hand, I will not kill you. Not tonight, not ever. That's a promise."
Visions of being chained in his basement as a torture slave for the rest of her life flashed through Michele's mind. "I don't believe you."
"Do you believe me about the horrible bloody death part?"
Michele hesitated. "Yes."
"The 'let you live' part is just as true. I think you should trust me on this one. I'm not sure I can emphasize enough how much better of a deal option two would be for you. Give me your hand."
Michele really did not want to do this...but for some freaky, messed-up reason, she believed Ivan when he said that he wouldn't kill her. Whatever he did to her would be awful, there was no question about that, but she could either trust him or hope that she could beat him when he crawled into the cage.
Better to trust him.
She scooted to the front of the cage.
"You're making a good choice."
Michele took a moment to work up her courage, then slid her right hand through the bars.
Ivan took it.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
A Job For The Pros
"Are you sure you're not going to bleed to death?"
Lou nodded. "I'm getting blood all over this poor guy's car, though."
"It's probably insured."
"This piece of crap? No way. I guarantee you he's only got liability. It would probably cost more to insure it than the trade-in value of the car."
George considered that. "What do you think it'll cost him to get the bloodstains out?"
"A shitload."
"Poor bastard."
"Yeah."
"I guess in the grand scheme of what happened tonight, the guy with a bloody car isn't getting such a bad deal, but I'd still be pissed if I were him."
"Plus, we're not done with the car yet," said Lou. "We could end up wrecking it."
"Yeah, the way things are going a blown-up car is a definite possibility. Although I think the worst is over."
"Well, so did I, until you just now went and jinxed it."
George smiled, but there was no humor in it. "Hey, Lou, is it okay if I get all deep on you?"
"Aw, crap."
"Bear with me. It's my fault that all those people died today."
"No, it's the werewolf's fault. Don't beat yourself up."
"I should be beating myself up. This is a really appropriate time for that kind of thing. Look, I know we're basically scumbags. We hurt a lot of people, but it's usually people who deserve it."
"Not always."
"That's why I said 'usually.' When we do bad things, we're shaking people for money, breaking a couple of bones, maybe cutting somebody if they need it. We never orphaned kids. We never murdered people just for kicks."
"We didn't, but we still suck."
"I don't want to do this anymore. I want to be a good person."
"May I speak freely?" Lou asked.
"Of course."
"Fuck you, George."
"That's how you respond to me wanting to be a good person?"
"Yep. You don't want to better yourself. You're just a selfish prick. This is about making you feel better, not about helping anybody else. If you wanted to become Mother Theresa, you should have done it when that poor old guy begged you not to break his thumbs, not while we're driving away from a bloodbath. I don't want to hear about any recanting of your previous ways in the middle of a really bad situation. You want to be a better person? Make that decision when we're sipping Margaritas on a luxury cruise."
"Margaritas are chick drinks."
"No they're not. Jimmy Buffett sings about them."
"Yeah, I guess you're right. But I'm going to make it up to the victims for what happened."
"How? By bringing them back as zombies?"
"I don't know yet. Those kids who lost their mother, maybe I'll pay for their college education."
"What? Are you brain damaged?"
"What's wrong with doing that?"
"I know I said the term was offensive earlier, but George, that's completely retarded. You're not going to send those kids through college. What are you going to do, go around offering financial support to everybody we've wronged?"
"Not everybody. Just the worst ones."
"Give me a frickin' break. You want to help somebody you've wronged? Help me. Buy me a new shirt and pants. Get me some goddamn Band-Aids."
"I will."
"Thank you."
&nb
sp; "I'm being completely serious. I'm going to start helping people. Sure, maybe I'll wake up in the morning and decide that the college education idea is kind of stupid--"
"You will, I promise."
"--but I'm going to do whatever it takes to clear my conscience. Maybe it won't be big things. Maybe it'll be a bunch of little things. Maybe I'll...I don't know, entertain kids or something. Dress up as a clown."
"Kids don't like clowns. Kids are scared of them. You're going to terrorize the children you're trying to entertain."
"You know what I mean."
"No, I don't. I've never been more lost in a conversation in my life."
"I just want to be a better person."
"We've established that. We've also established that it's stupid."
"Becoming a better person is stupid?"
"Maybe the concept isn't, but the ideas you're throwing out there are."
"Well, my brain isn't working at full capacity right now, okay? Give me a break. You should be encouraging me."
"Fine. Be a scary clown."
"I don't mean the clown thing. But if I have a major life epiphany, a positive one, you shouldn't sit there and make fun of it. I wouldn't do that to you."
"You make fun of me for ordering a diet soda! Don't pretend that you're some self-improvement cheerleader. Our relationship is based on blunt honesty, and my bluntly honest opinion is that you're being an idiot. I'm not saying you shouldn't be affected by what happened, but do I believe that you're going to become Santa Claus? Hell no."
"I think you could stand to be more affected by all of this."
"I'm compartmentalizing."
"Fine. We'll let the whole thing drop."
"Good idea."
"Are you sure you're not bleeding to death?"
"As far as I know."
"How much further?"
They'd found a mustard-stained road map underneath the back seat. Lou ran his finger along it. "A few more blocks."
"I hope these guys know what they're doing. What I really hope is that they let me pull the trigger when they've got Ivan in their sights. That'd be sweet."
"Right. We've performed so well up to this point, I'm sure they'll be more than happy to turn the responsibility right back over to us, just to keep our high self-esteem intact."
