A Night of Wild Madness
It was a dark night, but this night had the darkness on its side, for the moon did not once shine it’s lamp on the streets of London, thus it was harder to have spotted an angel that night. At the hour of the eleventh past mid-day, as the locals had called it, nearly all of its streets had grown barren, save for two unfortunate hermits that toiled nearby the famed Tower of his Majesty’s kingdom. The hermits were both men, both of them about the age of fourty, and were both formerly tolerable, but gave that up, as most men had, with spoils, and were weathering their poor lives in the cold, cold streets. The taller of the two, in his torn gray cloak, was a sailor of a fine fishing vessel; the other, wearing a soiled white shirt and a rather untidy and abused brown trenchcoat, had been the gardener of a very wealthy duchess. They were wandering about the night, but alas! The poor fools had not seen the red eyes that prowled closely by.
“I tell you, Squeak, this bloke’s a rather fascinating chap! Knew by his eye, when looking at me arms, that me used to be a fisher, he did! Truly, just as the papers said of him!” said the taller hermit, as they neared the closest streetlamp they saw.
“Oi! Them papers nuttin’ but a mouth of the guv’ment! Your addled brain was just tricked, methinks!” said the hermit named Squeak, as they finally arrived at the lamp.
“Not so, my friend, not so! This man had the eyes of God, knew all about me self, about me fishin’!”
“Ah, you twit, anybody with a mind can tells by yer arms that ye were a fisher! It ain’t nuthin but a bunch a tricks!”
As his friend was about to argue, out of the darkness, came a hunched figure that tackled the poor man, and shocked Squeak out of his mind. As he froze, shaking with terror, wondering what the devil was that, he heard the most horrific screams of pain and agony he had ever heard in his life, which came with the sounds that would have been that of a rabid mutt feasting on a steak. He came to, though rather slowly, and neared the hunched figure, he swore, by the heavens, that he could see that the supposed figure was covered in hair, and that the air smelled of fresh blood. Poor man, he was, as the figure stopped what it had been doing and turned to the hermit, and not a single breath escaped as the vile thing took the man’s life, ripping his flesh with a fury of which man had never seen. As the monstrous thing enjoyed its meal, it raised its ears.
The thing thought it had heard a footstep closeby. But to this vile thing, that would have been impossible! For this monstrosity was a werewolf, or as the locals called it, a bloodmutt. Just like that of the stories of so-called “biographers” of the wild, this bloodmutt had the hearing a man could only dream of! Aside from that, the bloodmutt had the claws of a rabid wolf, and the killing instinct of a learned hunter! And with all the superstitious folks spreading the word, day by day, surely nothing, and he believed, NOTHING would dare cross a creature like that!
The bloodmutt decided to howl, feeling confident nothing would so much as touch the devilish monster. That was when a hooded human came out of the same darkness , and kicked the bloodmutt right in the mouth. The creature stumbled back, both amazed and livid that something as clumsy as a human would dare attack him! HIM, the king of the night!
As the bloodmutt raised its head and snarled at the hooded man, the man simply chuckled in amusement, before saying…
“Oh dear, I seemed to have bothered the poodle.”
Insulted by the comparison, the bloodmutt ran at him with a rage, thinking this man was nothing more than that of a pup, a weak and utterly insignificant biped that would regret his words. But that was for naught, as the man leapt over the bloodmutt, and stabbed his hands with two sturdy daggers and stuck them to the wall of the Tower.
The bloodmutt, in shock, attempted to release itself from the wall, but was met with futile resistance, and was forced to watch as the man slowly brought out a revolver, and armed himself with the cure, the famed silver bullet.
“You know,” the man said, as the bloodmutt howled and roared in a fury, attempting its futile effort to escape its fate, “even with all that power…that agility…that performance…you are still nothing but a mongrel…” and the man shot the bloodmutt’s head, after which the bloodmutt slowly transformed back into a well built, naked man, signifying the end to his reign of terror.
“Impressive, hardly 20 years of age, and already you have killed so many nightdwellers…” the man heard, as he turned to face a stunning lady, dressed in a fine black dress, and sporting a fashionable feathered hat. He realized this was his mentor, his incredible teacher, the famed Miss Staffwell.
He bowed as a sign of respect to his master, but she laughed and told him to drop the formalities.
“Oh, Daniel, still such a gentleman? Even after killing a man…well, a monster?”
“One must give respect to where it must be adhered to, especially when a foolish pupil sights his master…”
“Well, then maybe you must learn to have more self-esteem, my promising disciple…” she said, as she gave him a letter. Daniel sighed, as he knew these were new orders, symbolizing another night of blood and battle.
“Another night dweller?” asked Daniel. His mentor merely smiled, as she disappeared once again into the shadows. Daniel then took his daggers, and disappeared, heading once more to a night of wild madness.