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“Hey, honey, my car’s due for an oil change, and while you’re at it, let’s talk about how I turn into a giant furry nightmare on full moons.”
When I’d asked, he’d simply grunted and opened up his smartphone to do whatever the fuck werewolves did online. Probably stalking vampires on Tinder, because why the hell wouldn’t those be real, too? Of
“Among others,” he answered. “Our race is ancient. We’re always at war.” “Sounds like a real hoot.”
“When two werewolves are mated, we bite to leave a permanent mark that announces belonging,” he explained. “Right. Kind of like wedding bands, only for freaks.”
Because evidently, werewolves and functional alcoholism went together like peanut butter and jelly.
He probably came out of the womb, cut his own umbilical cord and said, “Milk, bitch.”
“First, you bitch about our ‘savage traditions,’ and now that you’re actually at risk, you’re giving me a hard time about sitting out?” “I have to bitch. I’m southern, it’s what we do,” I shot back. “Doesn’t mean we don’t follow through on shit.”
