When werewolves won't leave you alone

A trillion light years ago, back when the two-lane highway was a super slab if it didn't have 90-degree turns in it, I was leaving work.

It was around 1 a.m., give or take an hour.

Midnight seems too obvious for this story.

The focking fug was so thick -- how thick WAS it -- that I could barely see the road. I could tell I was on the road because, well the screaming in agony of the earthworms would have been abundant evidence.

In the distance, a couple of little yellow lights approached me.

Or was it?

The lights never got bigger, or brighter ... as one would expect from an oncoming car on a foggy night in rural Indiana. You just would expect that to happen.

Then a whisk of black went whishing by, as whishing things are wont do do.

I knew in an instant what I'd seen.

A wucking fearwolf.

I had nearly hit those yellow eyes in the focking fug, and I was grateful that I had not contributed to the runaway carnage that happens on such nights in rural Indiana. To be sure, I'd already saved countless earthworms from certain doom.

The werewolf followed my car, evidently angry that I'd interrupted its sojourn across U.S. 27 three miles south of Richmond, or a mile west of Boston, a mile east of Abington. Not far from the state TB hospital.

Right in there somewhere.

The creature followed me home and the next day, I saw scratch marks on the hood of my car, marks that were not of this world.

Many years later, to shorten this story, I wrote a novel about that night, mixing in some truth with a tad of embellishment. The real facts are way too frightening to share.

I'd like somebody to buy that book.

It's about Opakwa.

It's a story not for the faint of heart.