I killed Georgie. It was 7:09 P.M. on the first Saturday in June. It was raining again and almost unbearably cold, especially for June. I was already in a bad mood because I had just spent $391.77 to have the timing chain replaced in my car. Having to deal with someone like Georgie, on a day like that, was more than I could bear.
Lucky for me, everything went smoothly once my plan was in action.
Now, I never liked Georgie anyway. We worked together at the Reno Frend-Mart, pricing items and putting them on display, the usual retail gig. From the day we met, he was always trying to get involved in my personal business, always coming around with his questions like :”So, what did you do this weekend?” and “Are you going on vacation?”
In addition to his nosiness, he was always trying to avoid doing his fair share of the work. But it wasn’t until that damp and dreary day in early June that I finally figured out he was a werewolf.
How could I have missed the signs? The yellow teeth, the callused palms, and the excessive body hair should have caused any reasonable person to wonder. No one else seemed to notice that the day he couldn’t work because of car trouble happened to fall on the same day as the full moon. It was obvious to me that it was more than coincidence.
I considered the evidence very carefully. I asked myself why a werewolf would be working at Frend-Mart. The answer was simple. Even a werewolf has to pay the rent.
I waited for him that night, with the gun my abusive boyfriend had left behind when he was mysteriously poisoned (and subsequently buried). I was concerned about my lack of silver bullets as I had always heard that they were essential for executing werewolves. It turned out that my fears were totally unfounded. So, I guess the whole silver bullet thing is just a myth.
The authorities never found out what happened to Georgie, which isn’t surprising considering they never figured out he was a werewolf either.
My life was normal for awhile after that. It was quiet, peaceful, just the way I like it. Then I met Samarra. Samarra wasn’t a werewolf, of course. Samarra and I both waited tables at the Aluna Bar. Well, not so much waited on tables as danced on them. She was one of the nicest people I had ever met. Unfortunately, she was also a witch. I don’t mean she was a witch in the modern new-age-Wiccan way. She was a witch in the traditional sell-your-soul-to-the-devil way. I’m sure of it.
I am getting more adept at spotting these things. Also, she kept candles and incense burning on her dressing table. Once, I saw her with a doll that looked just like me, but she claimed it was just a Barbie doll that one of her regulars had given her. She must think I’m really dumb. I never saw the doll again. Four days later, I slipped on a wet spot while I was entertaining the customers. I sprained my ankle, a victim of one of her evil spells, no doubt.
I still haven’t been able to return to work. My ankle is really sore. I was able to stop by one night, after Samarra’s shift, just in time to shoot her before she unlocked her car door. Later, I heard on the radio that she was dead, another unsolved crime in the big city. The funny part is that I thought you had to drown a witch, or burn her at the stake. I had no idea, until that night, that bullets worked just as well as the traditional methods. Hmm.
While I wait for my ankle to recover, I spend a lot of time doing research on the internet, watching television, and observing the man next door. He spends his days inside the house with the shades drawn. He only goes out at night. I wonder if he could be a vampire. I’m sure I’ll figure it out soon.