All American Muslim Werewolf

In the movies, Werewolves are monstrous entities prowling the night, eating campers in the woods, and all that jazz. Or we're stuck in high school forever, like in a certain boring-ass television series. Seriously. Sometimes I want to shout from the mountain tops that my kind aren't what you humans think we are, but I know that revealing myself would mean certain death. Assuming anyone believes me, of course.

The name is Rashid Osman, and I'm a young Black man living in beautiful Minneapolis, Minnesota. My folks, Ali and Amina Osman moved to Minnesota from the Puntland region of Somalia in the 1980s, and I was born and raised in the Gopher State. My family is Muslim but I'm not exactly a devout practitioner. I respect the Islamic faith, I do, it's just that with the life I lead, I'm not a good fit for it, you know?

These days, I'm studying criminal justice at Dunwoody College, and things have been lousy lately. I owe the school twelve hundred bucks, and I've got a few weeks before I pay it otherwise a credit agency is going up my ass. Oh, and my landlady Gladys Santiago is a nosy broad who snoops through my shit when I'm not home.

If you were to look at me, you'd see a six-foot-one, lean and athletic young Afro-Asiatic man with light brown skin and curly black hair. That's what you are meant to see, but it's not my true face. Nope, if you saw my true face, you'd probably shit yourself. I look like a seven-foot-tall, man-shaped, wolf-like creature covered in dark gray fur. A monster with bright yellow eyes, wicked yellow fangs and sharp claws that can cut through steel like butter. I'm a Werewolf.

Folks, before we go any further, let me clarify a few things. With all the bullshit being written or broadcast on television about Werewolves lately, it's hard to separate fact from fiction. I am what I am because that's the way mother nature made me. I am not some aberration brought forth by the light of the full moon. I have never been bitten by a wolf or anything of the kind. Movies and horror novels are fucking bullshit, I swear.

Let me break it down for you, people. I am a Werewolf because my daddy and my mama are Werewolves, alright? Where do we come from? Shit, might as well ask me where humans come from. I don't know and I don't give a fuck. I am on my own, and I'm doing whatever it takes to survive. School's out for the summer, so I'm working as a security guard to pay my rent and pay the school back for what I owe them. I wish I could say this was my only problem right now. I really do. Truth is, I'm a marked man.

You see, in Werewolf society, we got only one rule. Humans must never know about us. Anything else goes. I've never violated that rule, per se, but I had to do something I'm not proud of. Last year, there was this chick named Fatima Mourad, a pretty Arab gal I met at school. Fatima was very religious and quite involved with the Muslim group at school. As I said before, I'm Muslim but not practicing. This Arab cutie took a liking to me, and I guess I started attending the Muslim group meetings in an effort to get close to her.

Folks, if you saw Fatima Mourad, you'd understand. This gal was something else. Five-foot-ten, with long black hair, light bronze skin and dark brown eyes. This Arab cutie had a body that was simply to die for. I'm talking hourglass figure, wide hips, with a thick, heart-shaped and deliciously plump ass. Fatima and I became an item, and I must say, those few months with her were some of the happiest of my life.

Fatima Mourad, the gorgeous and fearless Arab chick actually changed my life. I've fucked plenty of females, both Werewolf women and normal girls, but had never been in love before meeting Fatima. Fatima set out to fix up the roughneck I had been, folks. This gal read the Koran to me, bought me a brand new wardrobe with her own money, and told me that I was her African prince. How cool is that? Small wonder I fell in love with her.

Now, if Fatima Mourad had been a Werewolf, this would have been perfect. We would have gotten married, and had little Werewolf pups, and lived happily ever after. Unfortunately, Fatima Mourad and I literally come from different species. This gal is human, as in Homo Sapiens, and I'm a Werewolf. Homo Lupus, that's the genus I belong to. If we'd stayed together, our union wouldn't have been fertile. A wolf-man and a human female can no more reproduce than a cat and a dog. Yup, mother nature and her fucked-up rules, eh?

Fatima Mourad and I began dating, and a lot of people at school took notice. Minneapolis is a racially diverse city, and we Somalis have been there for generations. Still, people do a double take when they see a tall Somali Muslim male holding hands with a pretty young Arab-American Muslim female. Folks on the Dunwoody College campus certainly talked a lot about us, and her relatives eventually got wind of our little romance.

Folks, before we go any further, I must tell you one of the dirty little secrets of the Islamic faith in which I was raised. According to our Holy Book, men of all races are equal before the Most High. Yet, the Arabs and other Muslims consider themselves superior to us African Muslims, and that's a damn shame. If you were to go to the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia or Kuwait, you'd see lots of Arab men with African wives and concubines but you'd rarely see an African Muslim man with an Arab wife. Interesting, eh?

Fatima's father, Mohammed Mourad, and her older brother, Ali, weren't thrilled with the fact that she was dating me. The Arabs really, really don't like seeing men of other races with their women and their hatred of us African men is age-old. They came after me...with guns. I was home alone one night, and they came after me, with lethal intent.

Now, in order to save myself, I had to transform. You see, in human form, I can easily be killed, just like you. In my Werewolf form, I am ten times stronger than the average man, and I can outrun a cheetah. Oh, and I heal instantly from almost any injury. Fully transformed, I went after them. I prevailed. They died. The deaths of Mohammed and Ali Mourad were blamed on a wild animal. Driven insane by the loss of her father and brother, my sweet Fatima got sent to a mental hospital.

Folks, I am honestly sorry for what happened. The local police bought the story, and the deaths of the Mourad men were blamed on stray dogs. The case was closed. The local Werewolves weren't so easily fooled. They consider me a liability now because I could have gotten all of us exposed. The human authorities did investigate me, but came up empty-handed. I was never even accused. They spoke to me just like they spoke to everyone else connected to the Mourad family. I got away scot-free.

That's not enough for my people. Werewolf society is far less forgiving than the human world. Our species has survived these past thousands of years among humans because of our code of secrecy. We don't bury our dead, we burn them. We stick together. Oh, and when one of us breaks the sacred rules and comes close to exposing us with his or her carelessness, this person must die. Simple as that.

For this reason, I am considering leaving Minnesota. Tonight. I've got four hundred bucks, and a few clothes in a gym bag. I'm heading to the Greyhound station. Where will I go? I don't know. My parents have forsaken me and I have been declared an outcast among my own people. The Hunter, the person tasked with killing those who break the sacred rules, is after me. I don't know who he or she might be. No one knows who the Hunter is. All we know is that the Hunter does his job. Say a prayer for me, will you?