If only people would stop judging others before getting to know them, the world would be a better place. Who am I kidding? That's never going to happen. Just got to keep on trucking, I guess. Those were the words running through my head as I ripped the throat off a trucker whose only mistake was seeing me in my true form. The poor shmuck died within moments. Half an hour later I buried him, and destroyed his truck by burning it with kerosene. Set off a nice explosion. Warmed me right up. It was a cold winter night, you know? My name is Miguel Etienne and I am a Lycanthrope. How have you been, ladies and gentlemen?
The backwoods of provincial Ontario, Canada, seem like an odd place to look for an African-American lycanthrope, I guess that's why I feel at home there. Sure, the locals, most of them rural white folk and a sprinkling of Aboriginals, aren't used to seeing and dealing with men of my color but I don't pay much attention to them. They're only human and as such, regardless of their politics, they're beneath me. The few that bother me, like a certain trucker, I make short work of them.
I moved to Canada a couple of years ago, and not just because I wanted to explore the great white north. I came to Canada for the main reason any true self-respecting American ever sets foot in this place. I was born and raised in sunny metropolitan Miami, Florida, and the main reason I came to Canada is because I was running from trouble back home. Trouble kind of has a way of finding me, I guess. I've been keeping a low profile in Ontario and adjusting nicely and it appears to be paying off. Occasionally unexpected things happen and I've got to improvise and work out the kinks. I made all traces of the trucker disappear, and hopefully he won't be missed.
As much as I've come to love Ontario, it still doesn't feel like home sometimes. I was born pretty far away from my new stomping grounds. Florida, the perfect destination for so many newcomers to the States, how I miss thee! My pops Michel Etienne is originally from the north side of the island of Haiti and my mother Mariella Santiago hails from the town of Bogota, Colombia. I'm half black and half Latino. Both of my parents are lycanthropes. In order to be one of us, you need two members of the opposite sex to procreate and bring you into the world. No invites into our club by biting, that's just a bogus story. Them's the rules! I was having a blast in the Sunshine state until I got involved with this bitch named Nikki O'Neill.
You know that chick who looks like trouble the moment you lay eyes on her but you still talk to her because can't help yourself? A lot of men have had their hearts broken and their worlds turned upside down because of that femme fatale. For me, Nikki O'Neill was that woman. You should have seen her, man. Five-foot-ten, curvy and sexy, with curly reddish hair, porcelain skin and lime-green eyes. The first time I saw her strutting through the Miami Dade College campus like she owned the place, I knew two things, that she and I were the same kind and that I wanted a piece of that fine Irish ass.
There are a lot of lycanthropes in the Caribbean and the southern United States, and I've met a few of our kind that hail from continental Africa. Sometimes I forget that there are still a few of us in Europe and the Asian continent. In those places, according to the Old Ones, our kind was hunted almost to extinction. The funny thing is that in the movies, when lycanthropes are shown, they're almost always white folk. In real life, white lycanthropes are a distinct minority within the global lycanthrope community because Europe wasn't kind to them in ancient times.
Long before the Europeans got the bright idea to start the Trans-Atlantic Slave Trade, long before Christian and Muslim nations clashed around the world, and long before Hitler and his German buddies persecuted the Jews, the human race persecuted my species. Why? Simply because we're different. A unique twist in our genetic code enables us to shape-shift at will from human form to that of a bipedal wolf-like creature. What many call a werewolf. Sad but true. Given what I've just told you about my people's history, you could understand how, for someone like me, glimpsing Nikki O'Neill walking through campus was like seeing a unicorn.
Our eyes met, and I instantly felt a thrill down my spine. The reaction any male of my species gets when he sees an attractive, healthy female of breeding age. I went over to introduce myself. Nikki O'Neill smiled at me and shook my hand. I learned that she was a newcomer to the States by way of Galway, Ireland. She was new in town and looking at colleges and universities. I offered to be her guide, and we became pals. Nikki and I began hanging out together. I was eager to show her the bright lights of Miami, and the cool spots where our kind congregate. My buddy Marquis Suarez father Antonio owns a house in the Everglades and he likes to throw house parties there.
I've known Marquis since we were puppies and his parties are off the hook. When you are what we are, you must lead a life of discretion. There aren't a lot of places in this world where we can go and be ourselves, you know? It's fun beyond your wildest dreams, man. Wolf-girls and wolf-dudes dancing and getting our freak on, with loud music blasting and delicious food all around. First time I got laid was at one of Marquis parties. I hooked up with a tall, curvaceous Jamaican hottie named Suzannah Thompson. She was new to the City of Miami, and I showed this Kingston sweetheart how we American lads got down. Full-moon loving, man. Nothing like it!
