Large paws hit the ground that night, thudding against the earth as a rhythmic drum. The moon washed over Bryson like a clean bath, making him feel whole again. He paused for a second, and reared his head back into a delighted roar. He was stronger tonight; he felt it in his taut muscles and even in his very bloodstream. Bryson felt as if he could take over the world with the might within his body.
Ah, but he wouldn't.
He wouldn't know what to do with the world even if he cradled it in his palms. Honestly, Bryson could just settle for some good food right now. Lifting his nose to the air, various smells of game tickled his senses. He smelled the tangy scent of a small herd of deer not far away, and that was enough to send him barreling toward the source. He tried not to make unnecessary noise, but that didn't stop the twigs from snapping under his large form.
As he ran, he imagined he would be quite a frightful sight to the deer. At full posture in this hybrid form, Bryson stood a few inches over eight feet tall. In this form, Bryson was covered top to bottom in coarse, grisly brown fur and his long teeth were those that one might see in his or her nightmares. His shoulders stretched nearly four feet wide and his bipedal body was corded in thick, sinewy muscle.
The deer would run, but they would be caught. Bryson was faster than they. Even still, he continued to do his best to remain silent. If the deer learned of his presence before absolutely necessary, catching them would be far more work than Bryson was willing to commit to in his nighttime, freedom run.
It didn't take long.
The herd was resting about a quarter-mile away in a small alcove. And of course, they bolted upon the sight of him. Bryson quickly decided on a large, brown male deer and began the chase. Usually, bucks would stand and fight, especially with so many females nearby. But this time? It ran as well. It seemed to know that it was far outmatched.
It didn't matter.
Bryson caught up to it in minutes, pouncing atop it and grabbing it in his powerful jaws. It's neck snapped easily and mercifully, and the werewolf began dragging his food to back to the cave he usually ate in. Bryson trotted along happily, dragging the dead animal in his mouth. As he went, the scent of blood attracted more normal wolves and coyotes... but none dared challenge the beast that claimed the buck.
That being said, they still reveled in his kill. Their howls of delight could be heard for miles and miles. Wolves followed strength, and therefore, Bryson was their master for the time being. He didn't care. He just wanted to eat. And he was just about to do just that, when a peculiar scent caught his nose. This was a scent that he identified almost immediately. The scent of a lycanthrope. Or... multiple lycanthropes. And sex. Yes, that scent was there too.
Another quick sniff told him that there were humans amongst the pack.
Bryson hunkered down as far as possible, not caring to be noticed by whoever was here. He figured by the smell that it was a so-called pack showing off to a group of women in exchange for a good lay out in the wilderness. Not that there was technically anything wrong with fucking in the wild, of course. Bryson could attest to that from experience.
But even still, he tried to avoid them.
Didn't work.
He knew the moment he heard the excited hooting and hollering coming from close-by that they'd picked up his scent just as he'd picked up theirs.
He resigned himself, sitting in the middle of the wolf pack and chewing on the deer he'd killed.
From what Bryson knew, every werewolf in Tuscumbia was young and inexperienced: pups. That's what Bryson called men and women who hadn't been wolves but five to seven years. The only ones he'd met that were as old as he --or older, even-- lived back in the city about three hours from their small town.
The werewolves here weren't a threat as much as they were a nuisance. They weren't large like he was. Not yet, at least.
Bryson took a moment to remember those years of his life, and more specifically, the day he had first transformed. He was fourteen years old, then. That had been over fifty-five years ago now.
Fuck, he was getting old.
The sound of footsteps got louder to Bryson. And then, they came in from behind him, whooping in delight as they saw the crouched werewolf. Bryson didn't heed them any mind, just continued doing what he was doing. Now, the undeniable scent of booze cloyed at his nose.
How typical.
A voice spoke up from behind him.
"Hey, wolf!" A loud, husky voice called out to Bryson. The arrogance in the young hybrid's voice was something that couldn't be mistaken. Bryson's wolf eyes rolled in their sockets, and he turned his head slightly to see a group of five people.
Well, sort of people.
There were two human girls, watching with girlish glee as three transformed werewolves stood tall in front of them. The group stood about fifteen feet away from Bryson as it was now.
The tallest one stood in the middle, ranging about six feet tall --if not a little under, with a shoulder span of about two and a half feet. Bryson figured it was the one who had spoken so openly to him. It appeared to maybe have ten or eleven years of wolf-dom under it's belt. Respectable compared to most the rabble here, but nothing compared to him.
Still a baby. Bryson let out a small bark at the thought, but otherwise did not acknowledge them. Can't they just leave me the fuck alone?
He heard the crack of bones behind him. Someone had shifted back into a human. The sound was undeniable. Bryson didn't care to look as the lad got dressed.
"Now I thought I told all wolves to stay out of these fucking woods tonight," he called, a southern drawl heavily apparent in his voice. Booze lit the air around Bryson's nostrils again. "Didn't I tell 'em all, Sean? Didn't I tell them that their alpha wanted these particular grounds to himself tonight? And look what I find here! Which one are you? Landon? I'll bet the fuck you're Landon. Stand up!" He said the word alpha like he was proud of it. Bryson snorted in disdain.
"Answer!" came a voice ringing loud with laughable authority. What a shame it was, Bryson thought, that this is what we've come to.
When Bryson still ignored him, the boy ordered whoever-the-fuck-they-were beside him to go and stand him up. When the first one approached, he walked directly in front of Bryson. And then? The delight on the wolf-face turned into a face of terror. The bipedal creature backed up a bit, seeming to better notice the size of the crouched werewolf.
"Fuck," a rumbling voice came from his throat. "I don't think this is Landon."
"I don't give a fuck who he is," called the so-called alpha from behind him. "Stand him up. Every wolf in Tuscumbia should answer to their pack-leader."
Bryson was certainly annoyed. Moreso that this man was so adamant in his Napoleon complex --in this joke of a character he'd made himself into. And because Bryson just wanted to eat, he decided he would send them away. Since the day he'd reached thirty years of wolf-dom, he'd been able to reach the minds of the normal wolves around them. And so he did now. As he'd commanded them, they began barking madly at the other werewolves in the clearing.
Bryson finally did as told. And he made damn sure he put on a grandiose show.
He grabbed the deer in his jaws and lifted its lifeless body off the ground completely as he turned to stand full-height in front of the cunts who buzzed around him like gnats. And what do you know? Gas station guy. He was the esteemed alpha. Bryson noted subconsciously that none of the girls were the one he'd seen the man with earlier.
Once Bryson was standing, he deliberately tore a large chunk from the animal, ripping it apart with his claws. Blood coated the ground and dyed the surface of his teeth red. A bit of sinew dropped from his mouth as he swallowed a bite. Blood dribbled madly down his chest. On cue, both girls ran screaming madly, like they'd seen a monster. Perhaps they had.
Bryson wanted to snort.
The other three men just stood, feeling a lot less big after seeing him stand. And what was better? All of them looked to be absolutely horrified at the creature they were looking at. Perhaps it was because of his size, or perhaps it was from the sheer fact that most wolves here didn't hunt fresh meat anymore. Hell, it could've been both.
Whatever the reason, Bryson didn't care for the fear; he wasn't some big-bad storybook character, after all. He just wanted to be left by himself. This little power-skit should do it.
"Leave me out of your games," he said, his voice rising in a snarl. "I'll hunt where I want."
He heard no argument from the men. They left him be just as he'd none-too-kindly told them too --and rather quickly, too. As Bryson finally finished his meal, he remembered again for a moment when he'd been their age. Perhaps he'd been a little cocky too, back then. And maybe if his dad hadn't taught him better, he would be out there playing make-believe as all the others. Maybe he too would be reading lines from story-books to get pussies wet.
But that was a worthless thought, Bryson realized.
He began to run again, leaving the rest of the carcass for the wolves to enjoy as they would. Even with the irritation, the night was still young indeed. Young and wonderful. And Bryson? Well, he planned to enjoy just as much of it as possible.
And he did. Bryson lived it up right until the sun rose.
He'd tired himself after a long night. His house now called to him, and it was a call he answered. His bed crooned even harder. It was too bad Bryson had to get up for work in three hours, but eh, he'd sleep until then. He didn't bother with dressing, only set a few alarms and collapsed on his sheets bare-assed.
He didn't even cover up in blankets.
----
Bryson woke up from his nap feeling groggy and cold. Lifting himself from his mattress, he rubbed his eyes and pulled his phone from the charger. The phone was was an old one, for sure. It was 2016 and he still owned one of the cell phones that you flipped open to dial the numbers. If anything could be said about Bryson, it was that he definitely wasn't a fancy man. He never got messages or calls anymore anyway, so what did it even matter if his phone had a touch-screen and the stamp of an apple on the back?
He was broke-as-hell, too. So affording new technology was out of the question. He worked at Ruby Tuesday, actually. The tips seemed to only cover his utility payment, food, and whatever repair his old house or car decided to bother him with that week.
Speaking of which, it was time for that: to go to work. With a big stretch, he dragged himself to the shower and turned on the cold water full-blast. It would be unpleasant, but it would at least wake him up enough to do his job.
He got in with a load groan. The ice water made his skin and nipples pucker up uncomfortably under it's frosty rivulets.
"Fuck."
Bryson shampooed fast and braided his wet hair down his back. He was thankful to be out of the shower and in his clothes in five minutes flat. The black slacks and white button up warmed him enough to stop his shivering and tensing, but the chill in the air still rendered him less-than-comfortable.
Before he left his house, he locked his door and threw his key under the doormat. Perhaps that wasn't wise... but what the hell could anyone even steal from him? He was more likely to lose his key somewhere than to lose any of his property. The most desirable thing in his house was a bag of Doritos, after all, and even they were half eaten.
Bryson got in his old car, and shoved the key into the ignition. He softly hummed to himself a tune he'd heard earlier last week, and readied himself for a peaceful drive down to the restaurant. Except something was wrong... when he turned his key in the switch, absolutely nothing happened.
Nothing at all.
His car wouldn't start... the engine wouldn't even turn.
Fucking damn it.