Call Lonny

The Third Chapter Of My Attempted Novel
Fife’s cousin, Lonny, takes a folklore class at Salem State College. Although I have never actually met Lonny, I consider him to be kind of the unofficial advisor to our little group. “Call Lonny,” is a frequent refrain around the coffee shop when obscure questions arise about Native American Vampire Lore or Ogopogo. Well, Lonny didn’t exactly break his balls trying to get back to us. When he finally did, I guess he made it pretty clear to Fife that he didn’t want to hear our werewolf story. They talked about everything but The Werewolf. They talked about Fife’s parents and Lonny’s dad and Lonny’s third unpublished book about Harry Smith and the World Cup, but no werewolf. Fuck him. We’re running around in the middle of the night, putting our lives in danger, trying to protect society from a potentially dangerous beast. We ask him for a little bit of backup and he treats us like a bunch of crackpots. Lonny’s a smart guy and shit, but he worked at Radio Shack for nine years and only went to grad school after he broke his foot on a moped. I should know. I advised him on the settlement. He’s not gonna treat us like pests. Once, again, fuck him. I guess we’re on our own. Lou suggested that maybe what we saw on the ball field that night was somebody or something undergoing a transformation into somebody or something else. That would figure into the whole lycanthrope theory pretty well. Unfortunately, while we sat there for two hours, nobody bothered to notice whether or not it was a Full Moon. That was fucking embarrassing. We doubled checked at weather.com and, yes, indeed, it had been a full moon that night. That’s another big checkmark in the werewolf column. The odd thing was just how quiet everything was. Based on everything we’ve seen in both horror movies and nature TV shows, any kind of serious metamorphosis, whether its Larry Talbot becoming The Wolf Man, David Naughton turning into An American Werewolf In London or a snake simply shedding its skin, is going to be a fairly extended and traumatic process. What occurred that night was eerily calm, a silent and fluid event, like ocean waves rolling on top of each other or playful dancers forming shapes with their bodies. I didn’t get it. Still, it was tough to get that shit out of one’s mind. I wondered what Big Dominic thought. He had sat there in complete darkness, but he seemed just as drawn in and mesmerized as we did by the whole freaky affair. “I couldn’t really hear much,” he said. “I mean, it was obvious there was something going on down there, in that valley. I mean, I could hear breathing and I could hear something moving. Still, it was like the movies.” My sentiments exactly.

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