Clogs for Paws

[Roger's got] '39 [Problems and Brian is every single one of them]

No, Roger thought, she's right.

"So Roger, how is your band doing?" his mother asked, "Are you still drumming in it? And how is Freddie? I miss that boy. He's such a delight."

"Freddie is doing well. We found a bassist— if you remember we just recently found a guitarist— who is now living with Fred. He's from Hompy Bong Village, coincidently the same place where our guitarist got bit by a dog pretty bad," Roger responded.

She asked, "Brian? That's his name, isn't it? of the guitarist?"

"Yes, mum," Roger replied as he played with the phone cord.

"And what is the bassist called?"

"John."

"I'm sure Freddie loves John living with him. I remember him hating to be alone."

"You have no idea," Roger laughed, "But it could have just been our family."

"How so?" his mother asked, though she knew Roger's response.

"My cousin with who knew how to hotwire a torpedo? Or your grandmother flirting with him?" she giggled.

Roger thought for a moment. Maybe I can learn something from this conversation, He thought. He smirked, "How about my cousins who think they descend from werewolf hunters?"

"Oh, sweetie, didn't I tell you? On that side of the family, you know, your granduncle's, we come from a long line of Meddows werewolf hunters," his mum replied.

Roger froze.

"As crazy as it seems," she continued, "It was still largely in practice until fairly recently. If I remember correctly, it only properly phased out when my father was a boy."

"Really?" Roger quaked as reality set in.

"It was sort of the family honor and tradition back in the dark ages. Silly thing, I know," his mother responded.

Roger winced at the thought of his ancestors hunting along the sides of the sods from Hompy Bong. His family honor was to hunt down people like Brian and John, even if there was a supposed difference between Lycans and other werewolves. Just the thought of it made Roger feel nauseous.

His mother interrupted his thoughts, "Enough family talk. I am so glad to hear your voice."

"Thank you. And you too," Roger said.

"Have you found any girls?" His mother asked.

The question hit Roger in the chest like a car with failed breaks. "I beg your pardon?" he asked.

His mother pressured, "Like the one you scaled two stories to get in her dorm room for? I read that letter you sent to Clare. Real classy, my boy."

First off, it was really impressive, Roger corrected in his head.

"You were snooping?" he questioned his mum.

She laughed and responded, "After that stunt you two pulled with your father's car back in the day, I can't trust you."

Roger stammered like he couldn't get the words out fast enough, "It was her idea and I was a better driver than half the people on the road!"

"I'm sure you were when you could see over the steering wheel and when you didn't have an ice-cream cone in one hand," she teased back.

They laughed together and Roger's stomach settled.

"Are you sure you don't have your eye on anyone?" his mum asked one last time.

"Yes. Bye, mum. Tell Dad and Clare that I love them. I love you and I hope you have a happy birthday," Roger said.

"Goodnight, dear. I love you too," she responded.

Roger hung up the phone. He paced around his flat for a moment, unable to sit still with the adrenaline coursing through his veins.

He looked at the clock that hung above the phone. Well, that looks like an hour past Roger-needs-to-go-to-bedtime, Roger thought.

He walked over to the window to shut the curtains. Don't want a creep being able to look in here, he thought to himself. He took one last look at the foggy blob that was supposed to be the moon and prayed a silent prayer. He shut the curtains in one brisk motion and almost tripped when he turned around.

Roger went into his room with the thoughts of the past two weeks prancing around his head like a parade pony. He let himself fall face-first onto his bed, and he screamed into his pillow.