Another all night rager in the presidential suite of the Swankforth Hotel came to its inevitable morning conclusion. Mitch's bed was littered with beauties, each one so far out of his human form's league. He rolled to his left, where a sumptuous brunette was fast asleep. He rolled to his right, where he came face to the sleeping face of a blonde who looked a lot like...Wendy.
The kid panicked. He sprung out of bed, only to trip and fall butt first onto the floor. He stood up. Wendy sat up, her eyes still closed. She stretched and yawned. There was a knock on the door. Mitch did the only thing he could have done. He wolfed out.
"DW baby," came the familiar voice of Sweet Johnny Sugarshine. "You in there? I hope you don't mind, I'm just going to let myself in and..."
The door opened. Sweet Johnny entered the room. He surveyed the scene, scoping out the multiple babes, both in bed and on the floor. "Damn. There's more pussy in here than a pot of Mrs. Chen's wonton soup. Boy, I sure am glad I live in a time when I can make politically incorrect jokes and continue to have a career because deep down, everyone knows I mean well."
The Duke of Disco held out a fist. DW bumped it.
"Whoa," Sweet Johnny said as he noticed his favorite werewolf wasn't wearing a suit. "Look at you, baby, in your all together. That's cool. Not like you need a suit anyway. You got your fur all the time."
Sweet Johnny pulled out an envelope. "Hey, DW, let me lay a little something on you baby."
"Woof," Disco Werewolf said.
"I didn't want to bother you with this," Sweet Johnny said. "But I've been fighting the network for a while now, trying to get your furry ass paid for our show. I told them during the very first meeting that they needed to give you a producer credit and a piece of the program and they said, no way. We're a respectable network and we will not pay a dime to a werewolf when we don't know who the hell he really is. And I told them, man, as long as he keeps wearing his wolf get-up, he can call himself late for dinner for all I care."
Sweet Johnny handed over the envelope. Disco Werewolf took it.
"I convinced them up front to pay your share of the scratch to an escrow account in the hopes that one day you'd feel comfortable enough to share your real name and then you'd be able to go claim the account yourself," Sweet Johnny said. "But I get it. You want to keep it on the downlow. I don't know why. Are you getting chased by the mafia or some shit?"
Disco Werewolf shook his head no.
"Getting dogged by your old lady?" Sweet Johnny asked. "She trying to get you to pay child support for a puppy that isn't even yours?"
The wolf shook his head no.
"Shit," Sweet Johnny said. "Well, whatever it is, it's your business, I guess. Anyway, I realized that you'll never step up and tell me who you are so I got the network to agree to liquidate the account and pay it and all of your future payments to me directly and then I, personally, will pay them over to you, plus your usual appearance fee for coming to my club. That envelope's much fatter than usual, baby."
Disco Werewolf looked inside the envelope and howled. "Ahhwoo!"
Sweet Johnny grinned. "I thought you'd say that. Now if you'll excuse me, I think I saw three out of my four favorite professional football cheerleaders so I'm going to say hello."
Another party entered the room. Sweet Johnny looked at the newcomer as if he'd just seen a wayward turd.
"Boogiedown Barry," Sweet Johnny said. "What's an old snake in the grass like you doing, slithering around this neck of the woods?"
YOU ARE READING
By day, he's Mitch Lumpkiss, the scrawniest dweeb in the 1979 senior class of Seacaucus High School. As the preferred target for class bully, Derrick, the kid can't get a date to save his life. By night, he's Disco Werewolf, admired by men who wa...