James’s Note: The adventures of the Witcher Man continues. His interaction with the werewolves is based on the novels I keep reading were all the werewolves are involved in screwed up, abusive relationships. His opinions are my way of calling them out.
It’s not that Damien’s display of toxic masculinity wasn’t impressive. Even in his completely human form his teeth almost seemed a bit, well, toothier than you would expect from a true homo-sapiens. The faint gold tint to the eyes was also a nice touch, although he was probably counting on the whole “stronger than a roided out Austrian” thing to put the fear of wolf into me.
Yeah, that wasn’t going to work. I had been mauled by scarier things than him.
Judging by the vein on his forehead preparing to go full Vesuvius and the characteristic “prelude to an ass-whooping” eye bulge he was performing, I decided I better head this off before he did something we’d both regret. I dropped my feet to the floor and leaned forward.
“Look Damien. You can can the lupine machismo. We both know Wolfgang has declared me off-limits. You’re big, bad, and have especially large genitals. Good for you. Unless you’re ready to have a throw down with your Alpha over breaking his edict, why don’t we just cut the crap and you can tell me what he needs my help with.”
Yes, their Alpha’s name really is Wolfgang. He’s German, so it might even be legit, although I wouldn’t bet a testicle on it. He also really had given me “definitely not a chew toy” status, although that was about half owing me favors, and half unspoken fear of what I might do in retaliation. Nobody really wants to piss off the Witcher Man.
The little demon on my left shoulder kinda did want to him to try something, just so I could educate him in the finer points of humility. But, as the annoying little bastard on my right shoulder would no doubt point out, perforating him with six or so rounds of silver .357 magnum would surely cause me some kind of political problems down the line. Also, it would probably be bad karma.
Unfortunately, that last part isn’t me being sarcastic. In my line of work, when evil can at times be weighed and measured, the state of your soul weighs on your mind a bit.
Damian’s face went through a complex series of contortions and spasms as he damn near decided to kill me anyway. Luckily, murder finally lost the battle and he sat back down. Trying to salvage some remnant of dignity, he straightened the collar of his spotless black polo shirt. Between that and his fashionable black jeans, he looked such the perfect image of a bouncer that I had an unbearable urge to give him a fake ID.
Finally composing himself, Damien said, “I’m here because there have been two murders in our territory. Normally we wouldn’t care, but these were obviously humans who were killed by something that wasn’t. Our problem is, these killings are a threat to secrecy and what’s worse, all the other city leaders are convinced it was a werewolf that did the killing.”
I stroked my woefully underdeveloped (read non-existent) beard. This seemed like it might get interesting. “And what makes you so sure it wasn’t one of your wolves?” I asked. In response, Damien took a folder from his briefcase and laid it on my desk. I opened it to reveal a series of gruesome crime scene photos.