Illustration by Steven Parker
Reader Beware: You're in for mild amusement, probably zero scares, and some fun stories!
By Leo Portugal
I was born a werewolf, and I’d say that it’s a large part of my identity. My buddies call me Under-werewolf, on account of I absolutely always wear underwear when I’m all hairy and lycanthrope-y. It’s just uncouth for a manwolf to run around all night with everything hanging out, you know? I also don’t eat people. Or any meat, actually. I’m vegetarian for ethical reasons. If you wanna know more, just ask. I just love to go on and on and on about it.
So how does a werewolf lead a vegetarian lifestyle, you ask? I used to have this foolproof system where, on nights when there was going to be a full moon, I would have my favorite food delivered to my apartment. A cheese pizza! I would wait to transform and then enjoy that pizza! My roommates, on the other hand, would enjoy the pizza delivery guy. Oh yeah, my roommates are werewolves too. None of the pizza places deliver to our building anymore.
For the longest time, my roommates would make fun of me for being vegetarian. One full-mooned night, I berated my roommates on the follies of eating people. “We’re people too,” was one of my big arguments. They came back at me with, “You’re a homo-vagetarian,” and “What’s with those queer boxers you always wear, anyways?” They were pretty drunk and things got pretty hairy, so I left.
But something happened as I was walking away from the building. I heard shattering objects and screams coming from the second floor. My floor. I clawed my way up the fire escape and pounced through the window of my apartment. As a werewolf, hurdling yourself through windows is no big deal. High pain threshold. Forgetting about the glass and stepping on it in the morning barefoot is the sucky part.
I stood from the shattered glass and took in my surroundings. My apartment’s usual mess seemed messier. It’s funny the little things you notice in intense situations, like the weird stain on the couch that looked like Winston Churchill over by the decapitated pizza-delivery guy. And then I noticed the cause of the ruckus. A large man in a brown overcoat was standing over my werewolf roommate with a crossbow in hand. The man shot my roommate straight through the chest. A werewolf hunter was in our den.
The hunter whipped around and fixed his crossbow on me. I prepared to defend myself, but then, suddenly, the man just dropped his crossbow to the ground, a shocked look on his face. Then he undid his belt and dropped his pants, a shocked look on my face.
“We aren’t so different after all,” said the werewolf hunter.
As his pants hit the ground, his boxers were revealed. Looking at his underwear was like looking into a mirror. All the little slices of cheese pizza were in the same place on his boxers as they were on mine. He too was wearing pizza pants.
He shuffled across the room, pants around his ankles, and we met in a warm embrace full of compassion and a new-found understanding. That was just the opening my roommates needed to tear the man’s head off.
“Guyyysss…” I said, distressed.
“AWOOOOOOOOOO!” they replied.
BLOODBOOTS: TERROR AT YOUR TOETIPS
By Katy Parker
It was a stormy day on 2nd street, colder than a witch’s titty. I stepped into a puddle, and my shoddily crafted winter boots all but disintegrated into the water, wetting my feet. I was piiiissssed. In a blind rage I stormed into Buffalo Exchange and didn’t even smile very widely when the clerks greeted me. I lumbered over to the shoe section, and then I saw them.
A pair of purple Ugg boots were nestled close together like a couple of cozy little kittens. Let me provide some commentary first. Statistically speaking, some women who wear Ugg boots are, and this is probably a mathematical reality, vacuous, sad people. Hold on, offended boot wearer. You’re definitely not dumb, because you’re reading my story. Your girlfriend/mom/sister, no, not her either. They’re all cool. I’m trying to illustrate that I have maintained an unfair stigma against Uggs because I think they’re cute, but I’ve always been too afraid to buy a pair. If you’re still upset, rest assured that I bought the boots and that they changed my life.
I experienced immediate boot satisfaction. I stomped in all the puddles outside, and yet my toes still felt like the hot little cocktail sausages they so resemble. Better yet, people were winking at me and envying me without shame. I didn’t even take the boots off before I fell asleep that night.
I awoke to a horrible stench. My feet tingled and burned. Athlete’s foot? Bunions? I looked down and gasped at the boots, once purple but now a velvety black. I ripped the boots off and fainted when I saw that the skin, muscles and general tissue of both of my feet now sloshed around in the bottom of my boots as a steamy, chunky pink stew. I was left with impeccably clean skeletons of my legs from the mid-calves down.
Once I regained consciousness I calmed down a little. The boots actually looked even better in black. I cleaned them out and put them back on over my bone feet. I thought my boyfriend would be creeped out, but he loves the look and is excited that I’ll never have cankles. I’ve also found that the boots make a great double-barreled crock pot. Whenever I’m craving stew or chili (or both), there they are. I still think of my toes sometimes, but I’m not looking back. The moral: Uggs are better than feet.