"Hey bro, you walk around here like you think you're the man," came a voice, and I turned around, wondering who was addressing me. It was a rainy Friday morning in the suburb of Barrhaven, Ontario. Not just any Friday morning, mind you, but El Cinco De Mayo. I'd just had breakfast at the local Tim Horton's, consisting of a nice egg and cheese sandwich, overly sugared coffee, and hash browns. I was in a good mood, then this fucker came along...
"Do I know you, dude?" I asked, and I looked at the stocky, bearded white dude in Workman's clothes and steel-toe boots, and noticed that he looked oddly familiar. By the way, I hate it when random people I don't know get too familiar with me. I'd seen this guy on the local bus I took from my rented spot on Cambrian Avenue on my way to Marketplace Station, and the lineup of shops and restaurants around it. The bozo smirked at me, looked at me like he knew me, and then shrugged.
"Whatever," I said, as I noticed the 95 Bus pulling into Marketplace Station, and I made a beeline for it, for I needed to get to Bayview Station and then make my way to Carleton University. Guess who got on the bus and smirked as he walked past me? I shook my head, wondering what was this bozo's problem. When you're a big and tall young black man in the City of Ottawa, Ontario, you seem to be a magnet for passive-aggressive clowns who feel like testing your patience.
I took out my headphones and put them on. I'm with Chatr, one of Canada's smallest cellphone companies, and I don't have much data. So I mostly listen to stuff from the two videos I have saved in my Media profile. One video I liked to listen to features that fine-ass porn star Vida Valentine getting it on with a tall, muscular brother who plays the role of her horny gardener. Steamy video. Can't watch porn on the bus due to public decency but nothing says you can't listen to it, right?
"What the fuck?" I said to myself as I felt someone looking at me, and I glanced around the bus. As a predator, I'm well-attuned to the currents of hostility that others generate, and I know when there's trouble afoot. I took a look around, at a portly lady with red hair, at a soccer mom and her daughter, at a middle-aged, well-dressed white dude who looked like a government worker, and then my gaze settled on the bozo from earlier...
Shaking my head, I took off my reading glasses, and tucked them into the little blue box I kept in my backpack. I walked up to the bozo, who sat at the back of the bus, and asked him what his problem was. I stood about a meter from him, ready to deal with him if he came out swinging. That's the problem with people up here. The passive-aggressive bullshit is so thick you can choke on it.
"Dude, you've been on my case since Tim Horton's, I don't play that passive-aggressive bullshit, do you got a problem with me?" I asked, looking right at the weirdo. He looked me up and down, clearly surprised by my words and demeanor. Me? I don't go around bugging people. I don't care what race or gender you are, who you pray to, or where you're from. Leave me alone and I leave you alone. Bug me and one of us might have a seriously bad day...
"I talk to all kinds of people, bud," said the bozo, and we went back and forth for a bit, then I went back to my seat. I'd just about had it with this particular creep. Another bozo with nothing better to do than to bug me. I swear it's like they're crawling out of the woodwork. I rode the bus until Bayview Station, then got off. I made my way down the ramp, alone and in the rain, and got on the O-Train. Casually, I strode into the train and went to the middle seats by the window.
As much as my morning is lousy, last night was even rougher. Ever since the...thing, my dietary needs have changed. I've had to adapt to it and it hasn't been easy. I get off the O-Train and make my way to the University Center Building, the central hub of Carleton University. As I enter the building, I notice that there's a lot more people around than usual. Summer school started, and along with the burst of humanity come a myriad smells...
"Um, hey," came a feminine voice, and I blinked as a nervous-looking blonde chick came out of the elevator, looked at me in a funny way and then took off toward the first-floor Tim Horton's inside the U.C. Building. I didn't mind her reaction, what I did mind was the fact that I walked into her fart cloud. Now I know how the former Chicago cubs dude on Dancing With The Stars felt when that blonde chick farted right in his face. Disgusting much?
"Just perfect," I said to myself as I rode the elevator, wishing for the thousandth time that I didn't have a Wolf-Man's powerful olfactory senses. I exited the elevator and strode through the fourth floor. As I walked through the Atrium, I noticed a group of young South Asian women dancing. I felt a smile coming on as I noticed a big-booty Indian gal in yoga pants, whom I'd seen in the Minto Engineering Center a while back, as she and her friends twerked to their hearts content. Nice, I thought with a wishful smile.
In the movies, television shows and novels, you often hear about the benefits of being a werewolf. Well, I can tell you that it hasn't been a picnic. I'm walking around the Carleton University campus and I'm surrounded by hot chicks, and I can't do anything about it. You see, if I bite, scratch or exchange bodily fluids with anyone, I will infect them and transmit the Wolf Virus. Sucks, doesn't it?
"Hello Sharif," came a voice, and I turned around and blinked in surprise. For before me stood a vision of absolute beauty. Six feet tall, curvy and sexy, clad in a thin black leather jacket over a white blouse and stylish dark gray Capri pants, Richa Shaji looked like she meant business. What on earth is she doing here? I suddenly wondered...
I held my breath as the elegant young Indian woman drew near, and chastised myself for being so distracted by the scents around me that I didn't detect her particular aroma. Richa and I are both Werewolves, and when you are what we are, it's not a good thing to allow yourself to be distracted. The only thing a Werewolf has to fear is another Werewolf, that's one of the many truths of my new existence...
"Hello, Richa," I replied, and Richa grinned, flashing her pearly white fangs for a tenth of a second before her teeth resumed their normal, human shape. Richa stood there, looking and smelling so enticing, her medium brown skin glistening as though furbished. Licking her lips, Richa totally got into my personal space, making me nervous all of a sudden. By the way, Richa is the one who turned me into a Werewolf. The bitch bit me during our last date, six months ago...
"Little Sharif Kidane, always acting too big for his britches," Richa said, and she glared at me, with all the affection a hungry cat gives to a mouse. I forced myself to be calm, and reminded myself that we were in public. Richa wouldn't dare start something right here, in front of all those humans. There aren't a lot of rules in the Werewolf community, but our existence must be kept secret at all costs. That's the only sacred rule. Violate it and you die, period.
"Oh I think I'm doing just fine, Richa, what can I do for you?" I said, as calmly as I could, and people walking by glanced at the two of us. What they saw was a well-dressed young black man speaking to a South Asian beauty. In the middle of a crowded atrium. Not exactly a common pairing but not that out of the ordinary either. Modern times, what can I say?
"Hmm, you don't keep in touch, Sharif, you don't write and you don't even call me, a gal might start to think you're avoiding her," Richa said, and she smiled in a manner that would have made most men melt, and gripped my arm. Like steel, that grip. I'm a newbie to the whole being a Werewolf thing, for sure, but Richa sure as hell isn't. I know for a fact that this gal is over two centuries old, even though she doesn't look a day over twenty five...
"Nothing against you, Richa, I'm just not a group person," I replied, and Richa grinned. Folks, politics have common threads everywhere. Richa is part of an ancient pack of Werewolves known as the Horde. She killed her ex-lover, a Wolf-Man named Cleaver Watson, and took over the Horde. Richa bit me in an effort to recruit me as part of the aforementioned pack, but like I said, I'm not much of a group person...
"Sharif, you're new to this country, and to your new existence, you're not some random international student from Eritrea anymore, you're one of us, a Wolf-Man, don't squander this gift, and know that if you're not with us, you're against us," Richa said, and her eyes flashed bright yellow, a sign of anger. I smiled and slowly but firmly pried her fingers from my arm, and nodded in a courteous and gentlemanly manner at the brusque lady...
"Whatever, if we're done here, I've got stuff to take care of," I said, and Richa gritted her teeth. I knew that she could transform in an instant and morph into a seven-foot-tall, bipedal, wolf-like monstrosity and tear me to pieces. Werewolves as old as Richa can transform anytime they want, day or night. I am a newbie, still bound to the cycles of the moon. Richa is more powerful than I am, but I've never been the type to give up without a fight...
"Catch you later, Sharif," Richa hissed, and then she smiled and blew me a kiss before playfully smacking my ass. I blinked in surprise but kept my composure. With a curt nod, I walked away. Hurriedly I crossed the atrium and made my way to the Mac Odrum Library. It's long been my sanctuary, for many reasons.
I graduated from Carleton University a few months ago with a bachelor's degree in Commerce, and I'm thinking of getting my MBA from the Sprott School of Business. I don't have much family left in the City of Asmara, Eritrea, and I want to build a life in Canada. Getting bit by a beautiful female psychopath and getting turned into a Werewolf complicates things a great deal, but I can work with this...
