It’s heavy being a werewolf.
Heavy and hard.
They trudge around, loitering in shadows, sniffing out unsuspecting passers-by to pounce and chomp upon in a heartbeat.
They howl upwardly at the Full Moon, like a crazed banshee who’s just spotted a reflection of her hair in a shop window.
They find their fur matted and caked in all kinds of dried and not-so-dried substances from goodness knows where… some which would cause a banshee to wail just because of the stench.
They run around in packs, racing, chasing and fighting; growling and prowling; playing and slaying; and all because of something in the Full Moon that made them turn. Well, that and the fact that another werewolf had bitten them some months earlier.
They have to dodge silver bullets with their names on, without even seeing them.
And they have to learn to speak again with a mouth stretched and full of the sharpest teeth imaginable.
They do all this with an unquenchable thirst.
Or ‘first’ as they would say, with those teeth.
Sorry. It had to be done. Especially today…
The Mansionic Perspective 
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