There was a tiny nagging snag at the back of Ben’s brain that the werewolves at the Gubbio, Ohio McDonald’s were hairy hallucinations brought on by his black-market baldness remedy.
He’d been swallowing this new drug called Talbexia Arpablast, a supposedly effective cure for male-pattern hair loss. It had not been fully tested or approved yet. Rumors circulated that the formula originated from a classified Pentagon program. Very hush-hush stuff. Still experimental.
Ben’s Uncle Benjamin had finagled a gross of the big brown capsules from an “underground pharmaceutical bazaar” and was peddling them to his balding friends and family. Uncle Benjamin himself had always been blessed with lush thick auburn hair and thus had no reason to fret about follicle loss.
The lucky dog.
The Talbexia Arpablast (TA from this point forward) tasted like candied bananas as long as the capsule was swallowed whole. After the glottis reopened, a pleasant banana aftertaste filled the mouth. But if chewed or sucked like a lozenge it had an ammonia taste, like rotten meat. Flavor to make a face wince. One’s resting expression became pinched and twisted as vaporous traces of sweet banana were paved away under putrid ammonia asphalt. It was merciless. Unforgiving. Cruel. He wasn’t sure if the hair-restoring result was worth the strong shock of the tonic. He had to take the TA twice daily.
Ben had not yet detected any little filaments of fuzz sprouting along the retreating peak of his naked crown.
And now he wondered if the drug caused horror-movie hallucinations. Everything he knew about werewolves he’d gleaned from old Hollywood films. He’d always figured they were fiction, based on Medieval European legends. Now he was starting to second-guess his assumptions.
He sat alone at a two-person table, sipping his vanilla milkshake in full view of the two werewolves that sat in the booth opposite him. They were both hunched over the same side of the table, staring at him with feral yellow eyes, chortling and snorting.
One of them was eating a Filet-O-Fish sandwich, which struck Ben as peculiar. He’d never heard of a werewolf eating fish before. Red meat was more in line with accepted carnivore lore. Its canine muzzle dripped with ravenous salivatory foam that landed on the red tabletop in small splotches of caustic spit.
Ben was reminded of Ivan Pavlov’s conditioning experiments.
He’d always heard that werewolves liked to attack the neck. Fish didn’t even have necks. Especially when minced, breaded and served in a bun.
The werewolves were still staring at him. He hadn’t realized it was a full moon, otherwise he might not have gone out. Ben didn’t like to take chances. He hated risking his neck. Especially just to consume fast food.
He now realized with regret that he should have used the drive-thru. Avoiding werewolves seemed pretty important all of a sudden. Why were they here? Where did they come from? This line of inquiry forced him to wonder how they had ordered their food. Werewolves communicated with guttural growls and baying howls, not spoken language. This breach of logic indicated—once again—that Ben might be seeing things. The victim of a vivid TA vision.
He was annoyed that his uncle had failed to mention WEREWOLVES when he informed him of the possible side effects.
Werewolves rudely chewed with their mouths open, he saw. He looked at their long razorous canine teeth as they masticated the soft mushy fish sandwiches. It was like using a samurai sword to slice brie cheese. He’d eaten a Filet-O-Fish once and it was mushy as hell. The damn sandwich could be consumed through an IV tube.
The werewolves sat behind a pile of about ten of them. They hadn’t ordered any fries, Ben realized with horror.
The other werewolf was also eating a vanilla McFlurry with a plastic spoon. Ben didn’t know werewolves could use tools. They’d always seemed more primitive than that. It was like watching a house-cat eat tuna sushi with chopsticks.
It was aberrant behavior. It was not how things were supposed to work. None of this was. He felt compelled to cry out, Wolf! in terror but managed to straight-jacket his panic.
But the werewolves wouldn’t stop staring at him. Ben turned his head and settled his agitated gaze on the food counter. A young woman manned the register, resplendent in her McUniform. A man with a massive black beard and long hair down his back was relating his order to her and she dutifully pressed the color-coded buttons on the register. He was dressed in mottled green-and-brown camo and even though it was night and he was inside, black wraparound sunglasses disguised his eyes. He looked like the kind of big badass nobody with a scintilla of wisdom would mess with.
Ben counted to thirty in his head and then turned back to the werewolves.
They were still staring at him with predatory intent. They had not looked away during his brief excursion.
He felt like prey again. They wanted to kill him and feed on his lean meat.
If they were really real, anyway.
He suddenly wondered what he’d do if they bit him but left him alive, wounded and writhing on the greasy restaurant floor.
He’d become one of them. According to lore.
Ben would not enjoy turning into a wolf. He didn’t want to eat anyone. He’d never been particularly bloodthirsty. He eschewed rare steak. If he did turn feral and lupine he’d have to silver-bullet himself before the next full moon. Did they even manufacture silver bullets? Probably not. Maybe in Hollywood. Or Transylvania. No, wait, wrong monster. Oh hell he was losing his mind.
On the other hand, the werewolves sitting in the booth indicated that if he did undergo lycanthropic transformation he could still live on fish sandwiches, apparently. Hunting humans wasn’t required to survive. He could always come here. McDonald’s obviously didn’t discriminate against the lycanthropically challenged.
He realized they had already finished their meal. Nothing was left except empty crumpled boxes on the table. They’d wolfed-down their food as if fending off starvation.
And then a harrowing thought suddenly occurred to him.
What if the fish sandwiches were just an appetizer before the main course:
HIM.
Panic kick-started his adrenal glands. He started to sweat. His mouth went dry. He noticed his hands were shaking. He sucked up more milkshake to cool and moisten his mouth and it felt like a blessing. A cold dairy benediction.
The werewolves still stared, hungrily.
And then the big bearded customer placed his tray on Ben’s table and sat across from him.
“Um, excuse me, I’m sitting here,” Ben informed him with alarm. He could feel fresh sweat accumulating above his lip.
“Remain silent,” the man told him, opening the clamshell box that housed his Big Mac. “Don’t make any sudden movements.” He took a bite of his burger and quickly tongued away a gob of special sauce from the corner of his mouth. Shredded lettuce fell.
“Name’s Dodge. Dodge Shepard ,” he said, chewing. “I’m here to help you.”
The man spoke and carried himself in a way that seemed, to Ben anyway, dangerously insane. Maybe it’s a full moon tonight, he thought and smothered a hysterical giggle. He thought about running away (he’d finished his milkshake) but then he’d have the werewolves to contend
with. He couldn’t just throw himself to their savage appetites.
He felt like a wounded gazelle trapped under a bright fluorescent sky. His very humanity reduced to well-marbled meat ripe for the biting.
“N-now look,” Ben stammered. “I don’t know who you think you are but—“
“I’m Dodge Shepard. Pay attention and keep your voice down.” He shoved a cluster of French fries into his mouth.
That was when Ben noticed the rather large firearm strapped to his side, partially hidden inside his military jacket.
“We’re being watched,” the man said. “Keep cool.”
Ben anxiously looked around the restaurant. Then he leaned forward and hunched his back.
“Is this about the werewolves?” he whispered.
“Yeah. It is,” he said before taking a sip of his Coke.
“Oh thank god. I was so… concerned for my safety. So what’s your plan?” His tension had turned into an electric excitement that tingled along his spine. He was grateful for the man (Dodge Shepard now) coming to his rescue. He seemed capable. Ben should have known he was some kind of vigilante monster-hunter, what with the cool military garb and tactical gear. A metaphysical mercenary for the forces of good. Ben’s fear of a mauling assault by the man-eating beasts had been replaced with intoxicating thoughts of manly adventure. It was exciting to have a confident guardian by his side.
“Just lemme finish my burger,” Dodge told him. “Then I’ll take care of you.”
Ben peered beyond Dodge’s broad shoulder to see the two werewolves drooling, staring, watching them with shining, reflective eyes. They seemed to grin.
What big teeth they had.
Ben watched his reflection in the man’s sunglasses. He’d started sweating again, mouth gone dry. He was afraid to get up and request a cup of ice water. He was afraid to ask his savior for a sip of his soda.
He waited.
He was afraid.
Finally, Dodge wiped his mouth, finished his drink and said, “Okay, let’s do this.”
“Do you have silver bullets in your gun?”
“No.”
“Oh?”
“Your uncle sent me.”
“Uncle Ben?”
“The very same.”
“What’s he—”
“He wanted me to give you these.”
He slid a blister pack of pills across the table. They were pink, small. Ben lifted the foil-and-paper packet.
“What are these?”
“Put them away, I think the FDA is following me. They’re called Vraylex. They counteract the werewolf hallucinations.”
“Hallucin—” Ben’s countenance fell.
Dodge grinned. “You didn’t think they were real, did you?”
“Me? Um, well, no. Of course not…” Ben said sheepishly. A hot blush blossomed in his face.
“Your uncle sends his apologies. When he realized he forgot to mention the werewolf side effect and give you the Vraylex… Well, you can imagine how embarrassed he was.” Dodge leaned back and let out a raucous belly laugh.
Apparently secrecy and stealth were no longer necessary.
Ben emitted a tiny, “Heh, heh…” and wiped the perspiration from his upper lip.
“Anyway, sorry for the inconvenience. Just take two of those little pills per week and you’ll be good to go. No more werewolves following you around.”
“Um, okay. Thanks.” Ben had to admit he felt a bit disappointed. The end of the adventure was as mundane as a packet of medication.
Dodge stood up. “Well, I’m shoving off. Good luck, man.”
“W-wait. Can I ask you something?”
Dodge raised his bushy eyebrows.
“Um, do you actually think that those TA pills really help restore hair?”
Dodge erupted into another booming gale of laughter.
“Works like a charm good buddy! Just look at me! I used to have alopecia!”
And then he strolled out of the restaurant, laughing all the way to his little red Honda in the parking lot.
Crumbling Asphalt 