Tommy woke up in a moonbeam.

This, of course, being the most common way to turn into a wolfman.

As he prowled the streets at night, looking for soft pink monkeyflesh on which to feast, he paused because he smelled something more alluring, more enticing, than even the recent visitor to a buffet that he’d been following. Which was an enticing smell indeed, because his previous prey had spilled so much sauce down his front as to marinate himself.

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I have often wondered what my life would’ve been like if I hadn’t been born a zombie.

I’d grown up watching the regular kids through their porch windows from their darkened backyards, trying my best to be silent but my stomach gurgled ceaselessly. It always made me sad, when that would happen, because then me and my family would shuffle out of the shadows and into the firelight and ruin what looked to be a perfectly good grill.

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“I wager that I could lay you out,” McKinley said, soaking his beard and the bar top with another mouthful of ale.

“You couldn’t lay out a corpse, even with the help of your rum-ruined uncles,” Birschon countered.

McKinley’s eyes opened wide and bobbed in the ocean of ale swimming behind them. His beard quivered, shaking flecks of frothy ale from it like a dog that had escaped from its bath. Hands clenched around his mug of courage, McKinley stood and pressed his stomach against Birschon’s elbow as Birschon kept his gaze lowered into his ale.

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Hragbrell the Trepanner crouched next to his small cookfire and watched the stars while he ate a few bones leftover from his dinner. The only sound in the still night was the snap of the bones in his mouth, the wind through the leaves, and somebody approaching the campsite through the underbrush of a nearby forest.

In a flash, Hragbrell had seized his spiked hammer and began to think about skulls, holes in skulls, relieving cranial pressure and generally bashing things on their most skyward part.

A small, shabby figure came crashing out of the forest. It tripped on a root and pitched forward into the fire. It’s robes caught and it began to run in circles. Hragbrell didn’t feel like performing any rescues that evening, but he also didn’t feel like talking to anybody, and people loved a show. So Hragbrell seized the flaming person around the ankles, dug his own heels into the ground, and spun until the wind blew out the flames. Hragbrell then dropped the figure on the ground and menaced it with his spiked hammer.

“Wut yoz wan?” Hragbrell asked the robed figure.

“Please! Help me!”

“Wy?” Hragbrell asked. “Wut yuz nam?”

“Josephine!” the figure yelled.

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The room full of somber city council members stared at the mayor.

“Mayor, a city worker recovered this from the sewers while they were drilling through a hairball in the Barber District,” said the police commissioner, handing a three-ring binder across the mahogany table. The mayor fiddled with a phallic letter opener as he took the binder.

“What, they found some fuckin’ kid’s fuckin’ school papers and you’re all shitting bricks?” the mayor asked as he fiddled with one of the many phallic letter openers that littered his desktop.

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Melvin tried to ignore the ghosts that hovered over his head. They each held an ethereal satchel, out of which they pulled a seemingly endless number of meowing, puking black cats and dropped them on him.

Melvin knew it was Friday the 13th. He grumbled to himself but tried to go about his business. He ignored the raining cats while he shaved, he ignored them while he walked to work. He ignored them while he sipped his coffee, and did his best to protect his croissant from the hail of cats.

Considering his luck already as bad as it could get, Melvin dropped his guard and walked beneath a ladder on his way to lunch. The fall of relatively soft, fuzzy cats was replaced with a hard, metal paint can colliding with his head. He went to the emergency room and cursed his luck that he’d walked beneath the ladder of his new wife’s ex-husband, a painter by trade.

Melvin had to stay overnight for observation, during which he played with the cats.

The Moral: croissant umbrellas are going to be huge.