It had happened again. Blood had fallen from the heavens. The humidity was, well, have you ever tried to breathe when it rains blood. It's not something that is easy to do. Especially not when you're being pursued by lycanthropes. Seriously. Who in their right mind decides to piss off a bunch of damn werewolves during a blood storm? Well, me for one, but that's not really the point. I didn't mean to get on their bad side. It just happened. Again. The first time was a mess, but I was lucky enough to have survived because of proximity to the other neighborhoods. This time though, I made a damn rookie mistake. Not that I'm a rookie. It's just that, well, I called this teenage kid the son of a worthless bitch.
The little prick knocked me off my bike with a can. And when I say little prick, that would be the understatement of the year. I honestly didn't even know what had hit me. I just knew that one moment I was cruising along Amber Blvd. on my bicycle and the next moment I was skidding along the blood soaked road, my right shoulder and arm numb from whatever had hit me and left side of my body was scuffed, scraped, and bruised. Hell, my own blood was mixing with that of the storm. I was going to have to get another series of shots. Anyway, so before I even know what I'm saying, I'm lying there on the blood soaked street and I mumble, "Dammit, son of a worthless bitch." I mean, I honestly didn't even call him anything. I was pissed. I had just been knocked into the street by who knows what. I should have known better. Really, I was riding my bicycle through the streets of Dogtown and I said bitch. Stupid mistake.
The kid was running over to check on me when he heard me muttering to myself. He went from calling out, "Hey mister, mister you okay?" to growling, "You're dead meat-bag." His transformation had begun even before I started to get to my feet. I really didn't know what was going on. I looked around and saw this metal trashcan. I mean, an honest to goodness metal trashcan with two sides caved in. One dent was from where it had struck me in the shoulder. The other, the deeper of the two, the dent that went past the center of the can and was so made with such force that the metal was jagged and split, that was from where the kid kicked it. Damn my luck. A couple lycan kids out playing kick the can and I make the mistake of mumbling bitch to myself, not as an insult to the kid, but just because "worthless son of a bitch" could be my favorite phrase in situations like that.
I really should find a new favorite phrase.
Anyway, the damn trashcan. So my eyes go wide once I realize what's happening and I turn to see this monster of a kid. Really, this kid had to be almost seven feet tall. He's big. I mean, he's big even for a lycan. I started trying to apologize. I tried to tell him I wasn't calling him names. It's just what I say when something goes bad, when my luck does what my luck does. Which is to say, my luck tends to be the kind of luck that gets me knocked down often. My mind starts racing. Run or stand my ground? They always tell you when you're growing up not to run from the lycanthropes. They like it when you run; they especially like it after they've changed. They tell you as a kid if you stand your ground you have just as much of a chance of surviving as you do if you run; but seriously, who in their right mind is going to stand there when a nine foot tall, raging lycanthrope is barreling at you. The scared little prey part of your brain, the lizard brain if you will, screams to RUN in high pitch squeal of a voice, but the logical part, the "developed" part says to stay put. They told you to stay put and you'll be fine. They're all a bunch of idiots. That "developed" part is going to get me killed one of these days.
"Run stupid!" a kid calls out from behind the transforming kid. "Get on your damn bike and get out of here!"
That snaps me out of it. I hop back on my Raleigh mountain bike, noticing the seat is twisted to the left digging into my thigh and the handlebars are twisted to the right making it rather tough to get my balance at first, and do my best to start pedaling. The damn thing was still on the small bracket and in a high gear. The chain is grinding while I'm trying to get to a lower a gear so I can move faster than a walking pace, and it's then I realize I'm trying to ride up the hill. Forget that. I turn to the left, really the only way I could turn sharply because of the twisted handlebars, and I think that decision may have saved my life. That big damn kid goes flying past, his arms grasping at nothing as he closes them where I was, looking like a linebacker trying to tackle Barry Sanders in his prime. I actually felt the wind from him as he dove past me. I heard the crash of the kid hitting a car parked on the side of the street, heard the glass shatter in the windows, and worst of all I heard him roar. It's never good when they roar.
And as if that wasn't enough. A pissed lycanthrope kid is chasing me. My seat is digging into my leg, not just when I'm seated, but even when I'm out of saddle and trying to power away. My handlebars are twisted making it even more difficult to balance and speed away from the kid. And did I mention that lycanthropes are fast. There's a reason they aren't allowed to compete in sports even when they're human. I'm now heading back in the direction I didn't want to be going. I had just left Mausoleum or Ghoulington as others call it. I'm not supposed to be there anyways. Any time I'm in Mausoleum I'm on borrowed time. I'm bleeding, just a little, but I'm bleeding anyways. No matter what the PSAs try to say. No matter what anyone tries to tell you. The ghouls, they like the flesh. Especially when it's bleeding and even more so when it's fresh. It's like swimming in shark infested waters with a cut. Most are capable of controlling those urges, but there are those who embrace their feral desires. So just a recap of my situation, messed up bike, angry wolf-kid chasing me, I'm bleeding and heading into Mausoleum.
And it's raining blood.
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