Life With A Werewolf

Silver Tongue

          Ever seen a werewolf get sick? I mean really ill. Gut wrenching, puking and shitting in just about any available corner ill? It's not a pretty site. Their skin doesn't just get white with a pale greenish color like ours does. It seems to grow silver. A faint shade of silver, pale, and of course the weakness that always comes with being sick as your body fights off whatever toxins or viruses and bacteria that's infected it.

          We suffered about three days of this. Crash puking after eating almost anything. Then stumbling to work at night afterwards. Only to stumble back into work during the day time, and well, crash. He was sleeping a heck of a lot longer than normal even for him. It was so long, that the rest of us got together and planned a little intervention on him.

          Shawn is a man of few words. He'd rather coast through life than interrupt it in any capacity. In fact, you could easily see him at home on a beach somewhere sporting a dark tan and a surf board, proclaiming to you the beautiful effects of weed when combined with the wonderful music of Phish. When Shawn gets ready to confront you about something. You know it's gone far out of control.

          "I just think, dude that you should get it checked. I've never seen you like this." Shawn's face was a look of concern. That was abnormal enough. It wasn't that Shawn didn't care. He was just sort of like Bo Sheep from the old Garfield cartoon. A more dude version of the dude from The Big Lebowski. He helped in his own way, but knew that many times the best way to help someone was to listen or just stay out of their way.

          I suspected, but never confronted that he usually just didn't have the words of wisdom we all feel we have. Those special nuggets of information we "bless" each other with that seems to just make things worse. The modern equivalent of telling a new widow that "time heals all wounds" or a fresh divorcee' that there were "plenty of fish in the sea." He wasn't broken like most of society into thinking that his special brand of knowledge was warranted or desired. That's what I think, anyway. Who knows? He could just be painfully shy.

         So when Shawn's ready to talk to you about something, it's serious. And Crash took it as seriously as one could expect.

          "Why's everyone so down about it? It's not like I'm dying," Crash said moments before he wretched again, this time in the trashcan he held between his legs. It would have been fitting to have rain that day. For it to be pissing down outside, wash the world in the grey tone that Crash was taking on. Instead, it was sunny, with birds chirping sweetly outside. Proving once again that nature is an asshole and has no sense of humor.

          As Crash retched in the trashcan, Kris responded with, to his credit, with as much care, concern, and compassion as he could muster. Absolutely more than anyone expected out of him, to be honest. "I swear if you die because you're refusing to take care of yourself, I'm gonna kill you!" he snapped. "Get your big ass over to the phone and call Vic!"

          A look came over crash that seemed foreign upon his being. Was that look fear? "No hospitals." He mumbled. "It'll pass. It's just," he started then dry heaved. "It's just a small thing. It's going."

          That was when Zack came back into the room. I hadn't noticed him leave to be honest, and was surprised when he came back into the room strode forward and shoved a phone into Crash's hand. Crash made a face, but put the cell to his ear and began to talk. "Tell him if he refuses to go to Vic, I'll tie his ass up and dump him on his office door. Again." Then walked out of the room.

          I looked at Crash. "Zack said,"

          He hung up the phone. "I heard what he said," he sighed. Staring down into it. I've never seen Crash afraid of, well, anything really. Not for himself, anyway. "Thanks guys," he mumbled finally, handing me back the phone.

          "Well, if you don't make that appointment," I began again.

          "I heard what he said," he grumbled back at me.

          "Yes, but he'll tie you up you see and," Crash gave me a playful shove. There wasn't much strength in it. "I can rest about four hours. Then Vic will see me."

          I nodded. I wasn't sure who this "Vic" character was. But it wasn't long before I found out. Zack had work. Shawn and Kris both had a job to get to, somewhere. Though Kris volunteered to call out. He stood near the back door, uniformed shirt in hand. "It's alright, I got it." I responded.

          After all, what other response could I give? Walk away? Give him up for dead or let someone else take Crash in? After everything he did for me? No. There was plenty of people out there to give up on. And God knows, I've definitely given up on plenty of people in my life. But this wasn't going to be one of them. Not someone who literally dragged me out of a grave of my own making.

          That's what loyalty really is. Not giving up on someone even when they've given up on themselves. Not walking away and letting them make a mistake despite how desperately they want to make it. Fighting for them after they've given up fighting for themselves.

          Loyalty is painful though. You can ask anyone who served or anyone in an emergency service field. Any cop, fire fighter, EMT or doctor. They'll tell you. It's very painful and will exact a price upon you. I'm used to this pain being emotional. Friendships lost. Relationships damaged. The people you've rescued turning on you in their grief and pain and repaying your efforts with venom and spite. I never expected it to be physical.

          "I don't care if you are a damn werewolf," I grumbled as I half carried, half dragged Crash to my car. "You're going on a diet."

          He was trying to help, though at this point, and with the lack of fluids he's had, he was fading fast. Each step was a mere tiny shove against the approaching ground, not actual help. Each step was a throb, a stab of pain that shot up from my ankle, to my hip through my back. Like someone was skewering me alive slowly from the side. The pain jolted through me with stride after stride, but we made it, and I was able to click his seatbelt in place.

          The drive to this mysterious 'Vic's" was a bit more than a let down. Turns out 'Vic' is short for 'Victor', a doctor in the next town over, who had a nice practice. The building was brick, pushed back into a small clutch of trees that gave it a homey sort of feel. The curtains in the windows was your traditional vertical blinds that seems to be given to every doctors office by law.

          I wasn't sure what to expect when I stepped inside. But what I got was a waiting room three fourths empty. The few that were there was unrecognizable to me, save for the woman I had purchased the lawn gnome from a few weeks back. She gave me a nervous glance, then looked down, playing on her phone desperately as if she made eye contact again, she might spontaneously explode.

          The rest of the room was typical doctors office affair. Steel chairs with sturdy fabric set in neat rows focusing their attention on a television that was quietly playing an afternoon day time drama of some kind. One of the cheap soap operas that broadcast television likes so much: 'The Young and Restless Guiding Light to the General Hospital' or something like that. I didn't catch the name.

          A window with safety glass stood off to one side of the room. Behind it was a middle aged woman furiously typing away at a computer of some kind. "How can I help you hon," she said without looking up.

          "Well," I began, "my friend you see is very sick outside, and I need some help getting him in,"

          There was an expectation of getting something like "he needs a hospital" or something when we got here. Flashing lights, sirens, maybe an ambulance. Instead, she looked up at me from her computer screen, blond hair tied back in a bun of some kind, then looked back down. "Oh, the Loup Garu" she said. "Vic will grab him in a second. Just have a seat, please."

          So, I sat. Waiting. My foot upon my leg, phone in my hand, endlessly scrolling through social media crap. Not really paying attention to much of what the world had going on around it. The scenes on the television washed over me without sticking in my head anytime my eyes wandered up to it. Why do people keep putting TVs in waiting rooms? It's like bothering with the ancient magazines that some of them still have. That's another thing: why bother with traditional magazines anymore? Bah, I could go on for hours, but I digress.

          It felt like an eternity, but in reality, I was only waiting about twenty minutes. When you're stuck in stasis waiting for any news about a loved one, someone you care about, time just drags slower. Part of you wants to start beating on the doors shouting "What's taking you so long, damn it! Just fix him!" But doing this, just wouldn't help.

         If there's one thing I'm good at: it's waiting. Anyone from a military background becomes great at waiting. When you're forced to show up at 4:30 in the morning for a battalion run that will happen at 6, you get good at waiting. When you're 99th in line to grab your gear so you can deploy, you get good at waiting. When you've just got back from leave after Christmas and the entire brigade does a drug test at the same time, you get REALLY good at waiting. And holding in piss until you have to do it on command.

          So, I waited until I felt a heavy hand on my shoulder. The owner of that hand was thin and tall. There was a danger behind the eyes that screamed at me to watch him with every fiber of my being. Those types of eyes that you commonly see on serial killers and madmen. He had thin brownish blond hair and blue eyes. If he smiled and a camera caught him just right, about a million teenaged hearts would break all at the same time and desperately pour out their undying love toward him.

          "Come with me please," the man said.

          "You must be Vic," I said as I stood up.

          "You are correct, I am doctor Victor Hammerstein," he said. I expected an East German/ western Russian accent. The type that most Hollywood actors and us plebs alike butcher when we're trying to imitate Dracula. Instead what I got was a familiar beige, mayonnaise dull mid-western accent. I was lead through a door, down a hallway with cheerful blue office carpeting and pastel walls towards a small room near the back.

          Crash laid on a table, gasping. He was sweating profusely, his form looked. Well, it looked horrible. "Your friend has been poisoned," he said matter-of-factly. "From the color of his skin, it's got to be silver." The doctor leaned in close to Crash, smiled and said "You're lucky you got good friends you moron. Where did you get it from?"

          He gave me a look, his face turned apologetic for a moment. Then looked away. "around," he replied.

          I didn't see where he got the needle from. But he drew liquid out of a vial. Then he turned to me. "This is deadly to you." He said. "But it will help him. I'll give him this injection now. But he'll need two a day for the next three days. One in the morning, one at night."

          He then demonstrated to me how much he'd need, pulled down Crash's shorts to reveal a silvery pale butt cheek and stuck the needle home. Then he smiled up to him and said "Oh, you'll feel a slight sting."

          Crash mumbled "asshole" to him and grinned a bit.

          "No changing." He said to me, then looked at Crash. "No changing! You're off the bench for the next week. They can do their patrols without you for a while."

          Patrols? What patrols? What was going on?

          "Great. Desk work." Crash grumbled then looked up at him. "Can't you just inject me with more silver instead?"

          Vic chuckled, "hell no! You still owe me twenty bucks."

          "I'll pay you tomorrow," Crash replied. "Then can you?"

          The doctor smiled at me. "Your friend will live." They talked and joked for a few minutes more. Crash got some dietary guidelines and things from Dr. Vic, then he turned to leave the office. Before he left, right as his hand touched the door knob, I finally spoke up.

          "Oh doc, can I ask a personal question? It's been eating at me since I saw you in the waiting room." I began.

          "Oh, vampire." Vic replied. "Yes, I can read your thoughts. Yes I feed on human blood. No, I won't feed on yours, unless I don't get paid that is." His looked at Crash who raised a middle finger in the air back at him. "Looks like you're on the menu," he replied with a wink.

          "Do that and I'll shit in your yard," Crash grumbled.

          "Really? That's all I get," I joked, holding my hand to my heart. "Jeez, some friend."

          "You ever try cleaning up werewolf shit," Vic replied. "Takes days. Always stinks to high heaven, believe me. It's more than enough. Filthy creatures."

          "Shouldn't you be diving in a coffin," Crash sat up, as he spoke. Color began to slowly return to his face.

          "Shouldn't you be marking a tree," Vic shot back.

          Crash grinned. "Nah, I've moved onto doors. I'll pee on your door one of these days."

          "Don't you dare," Vic barked, then opened the door. "Don't!"

          He looked down at me, and said "you're welcome to leave when he's got the strength. No, don't stop at the front desk just move right on out. His office will pay for it." Then he looked at Crash and said "you're welcome, by the way." and closed the door.

          "Victor Hammerstein," Crash stood on his feet, swayed a moment, then stood upright. "Is one of the good vampires. And I don't owe him twenty bucks, he owes me fifty. Just don't tell him that. And don't think about it on the way out, it's just like telling him."

          Crash was able to walk out towards the car on his own two feet. His appetite began to come back too, much to my wallet's detriment. Though since he was poisoned and dying I'll let it slide. We had a good conversation on the way back. But to sum it up:

          Vampires are generally in the medical field. They're always arrogant, and usually assholes. Though, Vic is Crash's kind of asshole. They hit it off immediately. Vampires do drink blood, but tend not to kill. They weaken people though and the people die of other things, such as cancers or the like. It's why most of them go into medical fields, I reckon.

          The entire thing was an eye opening experience. Since then Crash has recovered, and is now going back out at nights to patrol or do whatever it is that he does. I seriously have this super hero image in my head now. Maybe I should just buy him a cape?