"I'm not your fucking pet, Entrée."
"You're damn right you aren't. You, my canine friend, are my cash
cow. You will make me rich, Z, and when you stop pulling a crowd I'll
sell you to some high-collar fucking aristocrat and you'll be his
loyal fucking slave." André was too pompous; his sweat tasted like
rattled nerves.
Feigning boredom, Z took in the ringleader's anxiety and began to
decipher it. "I stopped paying attention around 'I taste good tartare
with a lactic acid sauce'. I might prefer my Entrée with a spleen
and bile salad, but I am watching my weight...maybe just a
half-spleen..."
"Call me Entrée again and I'll sell you to a gourmet butcher, asshole."
"I quake with fear, Appetize-dré..."
The hulking, inhuman mass in its cage let out a deep, predatory
chuckle. Z had all the time he wanted, as long as André stayed the
same pathetic, money-hoarding tapeworm that he always was. That the
mocking nickname bothered the worm confirmed Z's predictions: André
had found patrons for tonight.
The muscular prisoner's gigantuan Trapezius muscle flexed, mockingly.
Every day, André looked more appetizing, and Z could think of fewer
and fewer reasons to keep him alive.
"If you weren't a great sideshow-"
"And here I thought I was the main attraction."
The ringleader ignored the interruption. "-I'd call the boys in grey
to make your chest into hairy motherfucking jewlery!" André's heart
thundered angrily in his brain; music to Z's ears.
"You will not speak English in front of paying customers."
Z's toothy grin belied his carnivorous intent. "No English? ¿Puedo
hablar Español? Midaber Ivrit?"
André dismissed the obvious bait from the overconfident lycanthrope in
front of him. "You will scare customers, but no physical contact. No
attempting to eat anyone, no clawing kids, and for the love of Profit
do not just lay there, sleeping! " Blood ran past André's temples; Z
couldn't decide whether to be hungered or aroused. Why not both?, he
thought.
"People pay good money to see a big, scary, make-em-shit-themselves,
honest-to-fucking-Profit werewolf. I don't want a furry piece of
fucking furniture!"
The lupine prisoner grew bored of banter, his rapacious appetite
requiring a bit of a compromise. "I'll need to be fed first, then.
Now would be lovely, Entrée."
The profiteer's patience had paid off. "Watch your fucking mouth,
dog. I'll send Butchie over with some fresh venison, once I get back
to my office, that is." André adjusted his raggedy top hat. "Might
go faster if wasn't so offended..."
An ensanguined growl spat out what might have been "Fine, André", but
was so shrouded in malice that André could only assume its contents.
The ringleader ambled slowly back to his trailer, leaving the famished
werewolf to seethe. The battle had been Z's victory, however, as
venison meant only one thing: wealthy reporters.
***
Two by two they came through the carnival's towering gates. Some had
little ones in tow, some had clipboards and microphones, some had
dates on their arms, and still others had their arms tucked
defensively at their sides. Word had coursed through veins of gossip,
arteries of paper and television cables, pumping from a single,
powerful ventricle: a living, breathing, biting werewolf. News had
trickled at first; André was an expert in drawing out a profitable
enterprise. A few, carefully placed, implausible rumors found their
way to conspiracy theorists and self-proclaimed monster hunters. From
there, the echoes of interest bounced from online forum to inbox, chat
room to front porch. Bloggers bragged of having seen this great
terror, and networks pounced on rights to the naive writers'
intellectual property.
Soon, every full moon yielded cameras and well-dressed journalists
caked in make-up. Microphone booms poked through throngs of suckers
who had given up two paychecks just to glance upon the "Feral Phenom",
as André billed him. "See the chained beast! See man's triumph over
his lowly cousin!" André knew that his clichèd sideshow advertising
drewmore groans than cheers, but he also knew that people with money
are suckers for nostalgia. A worn-down velvet suit, off-color vest,
tattered, fingerless gloves and a general stench of sleaze were topped
off with a brilliantly awful looking top hat. André was every
nightmare's Carnival King, reigning over his subjects justly, assuming
they all paid their taxes, of course.
Every few months, animal rights protestors blocked off Z's cage and
claimed that this was no beast but a thinking, caring creature that
needed love and affection. Those smart enough to see Z as the
carnivore he was kept a good distance from the bars. Inevitably,
though, a young and brash activist would attempt to show Z's
compassion by attempting to pet him. The amused werewolf would lead
the kid on by rolling over on his stomach and wagging ass as if a tail
once wagged there. After seeing André's fearful resignation, Z would
lodge his claws into his prey's temples (just in front of the sphenoid
bones, just behind the subaorbital foramens) and would, to the horror
of onlookers, slowly eat the kid's eyes out. Z would spew crimson
through violent laughter as he tossed the grisly, unstaunched body
back into the crowd. André was sure to get liability waivers signed
well in advance.
