Okay, yes, I admit it.  At this exact moment in time, I’m just the slightest bit drunk.

I haven’t had all that much to drink.  Just a couple of bottles of wine.  No, wait, sorry, I said that wrong.  I meant a couple of cases of wine.  They were small cases, though.  The ones that only have four bottles instead of six.

I think there might have been a few shots in there as well.  It’s hard to tell.  Things are a bit of a blur after the tequila.  I’m pretty sure that’s all that it was, though.  The wine, the shots, and the tequila.  After the fourth round of beers.

Like I said, just a little drunk.

It doesn’t matter, though.  I’m almost home.  I went ahead and did the responmable… the responstibible…  the smart thing and walked instead of driving.  Besides, the night breeze feels good tonight.  The sensation of it blowing across my skin is…

Oh.  The full moon broke through the clouds.  Great, I’m a fucking werewolf now.

Usually the process hurts like a bitch.  I barely feel anything this time.  I trip over the edge of the sidewalk and fall snout-first into the concrete.  Still no pain.

Okay, okay, maybe I should have stopped drinking after that fifth Jello shot.  Eh, maybe.  If I had stopped, I wouldn’t have gotten that stripper’s phone number, and…

Shit.  I left her phone number back at the bar.  And I can’t remember the name of the bar.  The bar that my car is parked at.

I push myself back up off the sidewalk and continue on my way.  Those sound like tomorrow problems to me.  Tonight, I’m all about getting home, microwaving some burritos, and laying on the couch watching Ron Propeil set it and forget it.

A lot of you probably aren’t going to get that last part.  See, there’s this guy named Ron Propeil, and he has these late night infomercials where he’s selling these chicken ovens, and…

Ah, never mind.  It’s like watching YouTube videos, except that all the videos are designed to separate you from your money.

…So, basically, it’s exactly like YouTube videos.

I reach my house and open the short gate door so that I can walk up the front path.  I stop for a moment and frown.  I don’t remember having a gate.  Or a fence, for that matter.  I shrug.  It’s probably just one of those magically appearing fences that you hear about from time to time.

I stumble up the short path to the porch steps.  I stop a few feet away and peer at them closely with my wolf eyes.  This is going to be tricky.  My sight is a little blurry, but I’m pretty sure that each step is about eleventy bajillion inches tall.  Oh well, fortune favors the bald, or something like that.  I take a deep breath and raise up one leg.  To my surprise, my still-shoed paw makes contact with the top of the step.  I must have forgotten that my legs are eleventy bajillion inches long or something.  I carefully navigate the other two giant steps and make it onto the porch itself.

The air is a lot thinner way up here.  My stomach starts to churn, and I stumble towards the front door.  Not a problem.  I’ll just go inside, get into the bathroom, and-

Well fuck that plan, because now I’m throwing up all over the front door.  Not a little bit, either.  This just kind of keeps going.  Hold on, there, I think…  Nope, more vomit.  Give me a minute here.

Okay, finally, I’m done.

Wait… wait…

Um, I think that’s all of it.

Dammit!  Where is all of this coming from?  It’s like I went drinking and then decided to ingest the entire contents of the Mississippi River.  And let me tell you, you do not want to be throwing up as a werewolf.  All of your senses are heightened, including taste and smell.  This porch has the same stench as a bouncy castle after a dozen preschool students went inside of it immediately after gorging themselves on cake and ice cream.

Oh, thank Jeebus, that’s the end of it.

Aaaaand I am not touching that door or its handle.

It’s okay, though.  I’ve got a backup.  I always leave one of the back windows unlocked just for this occasion.  I leave the porch, being careful not to plummet to my death down the massive stairs and going slowly enough that the change in air pressure won’t give me the bends.  I’m suddenly very glad that I paid attention during diving school.  Or that might have been from Shark Week.  Fuck, I dunno, I’m a drunk werewolf trying to get inside to make burritos, what do you want from me?

Too much, that’s what you want from me.  I stumble around the side of the house.  You’re always wanting too much from me.  I give and I give and I give, and still you want more.  Well, you know what?  That’s it.  I can’t take this one-sided relationship anymore.  I’m gonna go inside and pack my bags, and I’m gonna go stay with my mother.  Don’t try calling, because I won’t answer.

Wait, no, I’m so sorry, baby.  You know how I get when I’ve had a few to drink.  Can we just sit down and talk about this?

Are you even real?  Who the hell am I talking to?  What was I doing again?

Oh, right, the window.  So I can make burritos.  I go around to the back of the house and make my way to the second window from the left.  It takes me a minute to figure out which of the ten windows I’m seeing is the real one and not the clones that are spinning all around it.

The window is locked.  I would swear that I left it unlocked when I left for the bar…  I want to say earlier in the day, but it might have been late last week.  That happens sometimes.  I’ll step out for a quick nip and find myself arriving back home days later, wearing someone else’s clothing and finding multiple citations for public indecency shoved into my pocket.

Analyzing my missing time isn’t going to get me inside of my house, though.  I try to lift the window again, but the lack of moving confirms that it is indeed locked.  Maybe I left the porch door unlocked.  I look over at it and sigh.  It’s about fifteen feet away from where I’m staying.  That’s, like, so far away.

Ah, fuck it.  Now is the time for action, not for thinking.  I leap through the window, shattering the glass and sending thousands of wood splinters flying in every direction.  On the other side is the sink and kitchen counter, and I crash into both.  No problem, I’m a werewolf.  A wolf is a kind of dog, and everyone knows that dogs always land on their feet.

My foot catches in the sink, and I fall face-first into the tile flooring.  As I do so, my shoe rips apart, and my paw pops out just in time to become stuck in the drain.  I manage to get it unwedged and stand up.

As I brush myself off, I begin to wonder why the kitchen is now here.  I’m no expert on architecture, but I’m pretty sure that when a kitchen starts on the north end of a house it tends to stay on that end instead of migrating to the south side.  Eh, I’m sure it’s nothing.  Once again, not an expert on architecture or its migratory habits.

Something else isn’t quite right.  I look around the room for a few moments, trying to figure out what exactly is out of place.  It’s probably something small, something nearly imperceptible.  Werewolves are far more in tune with their environments than normal folks, so we’re able to detect even the most miniscule of oddities.

It takes a bit, but finally I work out what’s off about my surroundings.  I was right.  It’s small, nearly unrecognizable.

There’s a woman standing next to the open refrigerator, staring at me with her mouth open wide as she holds a pitcher of milk in one hand.

My eyes go wide.  It’s a home invader.  This woman has broken into my house, my sanctuary, and is now attempting to drink my milk.  My milk that I don’t remember buying but I clearly must have.

She’s also wearing my pink form-fitting bathrobe.  Wait, no, that doesn’t make sense.  I don’t own a pink form-fitting bathrobe.  Or those slippers that she’s wearing, either.  I take a quick look around the kitchen as my head swims pleasantly from the alcohol.  A gate that I didn’t remember, a locked window when I was sure that I unlocked it, a kitchen on the wrong side of the house…

There was only one rational explanation here.  This woman had broken into my house, put up a fence to block the view of my neighbors, and proceeded to rearrange the inside of the building to her preferences.  She wasn’t a home invader.  She was a squatter.

Well I’ll be damned if I’m going to let anyone claim squatters’ rights in my house!  I stand straight up and gnash my teeth as I let out a low growl from deep in my throat.  If there’s one thing that I know about being a werewolf, it’s how to look intimidating.

“Holy shit!” she gasps, dropping the pitcher containing the milk.

The pitcher strikes the tile floor, and I brace myself for it to shatter and send glass flying in every direction.  Instead, it bounces once and slides into the side of the counter.  Plastic pitcher.  Nice.

“Nice doggie,” the woman says nervously, her hands stretched out towards me as she backs away.  “Good doggie.”

I squint.  Doggie?  I know that I’m not exactly a hundred percent, but come on, I can’t possibly look more like a dog than a werewolf currently.  After all, I’m a werewolf.  How can I look more like something else when I’m already this specific something?  Did that make sense?  I feel like that didn’t make sense.

“Who’s a good boy?” the woman asks shakily.

Okay, now this is just getting offensive.  How dare she come into my home and treat me like a lowly pet?

On the other hand, though, I’m the good boy.  Me.  Me.  I’m a good boy.

“Are you a good boy?” she asks as she nears the doorway leading out of the kitchen.  “Who’s the good boy?  Is it you?”

My tail begins to wag.  Me!  Look at me!  Look at me being a good boy!

With one last long look at me, the woman flees out the doorway and disappears around the corner.  My tail wags slower and slower until it comes to a stop.  Did she leave before she truly understood that I’m a good boy?

Wait, what in the fuck am I thinking?  That woman is a goddamn squatter!  Who cares if she thinks that I’m a good boy?

…Okay, full disclosure, I do kind of care if she thinks I’m a good boy.  That’s not going to stop me from tearing her apart, though.  I’m a good boy with fucking principles.

First things first, though.  I take a moment to tear off the remainder of my clothing.  Let’s see someone mistake me for a dog now that I’m completely nude.

Before I pursue the squatter, I go to the still-open refrigerator and look inside.  I’m suddenly very thirsty.  There’s a six pack of bear sitting on the lower shelf.  I take a few minutes to drain each of the six bottles, using one claw to pop off the caps.

Still just a bit parched.  There’s a few cans of wine spritzer left in the refrigerator.  Not usually my thing, but beggars can’t be choosers.  I know for a fact that I didn’t buy any of this bubbly carbonated shit.  I can’t believe that a squatter would bring this awful stuff into my home.

I gently pop the tab on the first can and take a sip.  Huh.  That’s not bad.  Has kind of a hint of raspberry, and I’m not normally a raspberry guy, but that’s not bad.  I finish the can and pick up the next one.  Instead of opening it normally, however, I pierce the bottom of it and shotgun the contents.  I do the same to all the others and let out a massive belch.

There we go.  The ol’ buzz was starting to fade for a few minutes there, but that got things back on track.  Everything is nice and fuzzy and all smooshy again.  Just like the Lord intended.

I stumble back and forth a bit as I walk over to the doorway.  Either the alcohol is doing its thing, or the entire floor is rocking like the deck of a sailing ship.  Smart money is probably on the alcohol.

The doorway leads into the dining room.  I take a couple of steps into it before I notice an odd sensation.  There’s an intense itching coming from my lower backside.  I reach back to scratch it, but it’s at an odd angle and I have to be careful not to puncture my own body with my claws.

Dammit, I thought that I got rid of the worms.  That’s the part of being a werewolf that nobody really thinks about.  You’re basically a big wolf that can stand on two feet, which comes with all the positives and negatives.  One of those negatives is the possibility of getting worms.  They go away when I turn back into a person, but inevitably they pop back up when I wolf out again.

There’s no dignified way to do that.  I creep over to the far side of the dining room and peer out through the archway leading into the entryway.  There’s no one there, and when I look up the nearby staircase I don’t see anyone there, either.  Satisfied that I’m alone, I sit down on the carpeted floor and carefully pull myself forward with my hands.  The process scoots my ass across the floor, and the carpet manages to scratch the itch that I am otherwise unable to reach.

As I stand up, I realize that I’m probably going to need to burn this carpet once I’ve gotten this squatter out.  Werewolf ass rubbing streaks aren’t the kind of thing that comes out with a little soap and water.

With the itching now alleviated, I go out into the entryway and listen.  There’s no sound coming from the first floor, but I’m definitely hearing something happening up on the second.  I look at the stairs.  I’m really not feeling operating stairs.  Not much choice, though.  Time to both man up and wolf up.

I have to stop at the halfway point to catch my breath.  The combination of the alcohol and the countless pounds of pork rinds makes it difficult to go in anything resembling a vertical direction.  I really need to get myself into better shape.

Oh, joy, another vomit geyser.  That’s it, the good clean living starts tomorrow.  After breakfast, obviously.  The only thing good for the hangover I’m going to have is a giant juicy burger with a fried egg and bacon on it.  That’s going to make me thirsty, and the best thing to wash it down with will be a cold frosty beer.  Oh, and football will be on Saturday and Sunday, so there’s no point in starting one of those days.

Well, whatever, I’ll get around to that clean living thing at some point.  You know, once it fits into my schedule better.

I barely have time to put one foot down on the second floor when the door at the far end of the hallway bursts open.  I blink a few times to make sure that I’m actually seeing what I’m looking at instead of having the latest in a long line of alcohol-induced hallucinations.

Standing in the doorway are two figures.  Based on the robe, one of them is the woman I encountered downstairs, but now covering her face is a bloody pig’s head.  Her companion, a larger male figure, is wearing a clown’s face.  It’s not a mask made to look like a clown, and it’s not simply face paint.  He’s wearing an actual clown’s face that has apparently been removed from a jester’s skull.  I can smell the rotting flesh odor coming off of both of them from here.

Just behind them is a bedroom glowing with candlelight.  Even with my limited view I can make out at least three bodies hanging from the ceiling, parts torn off of them and their blood covering every surface I can see.

Okay, so, two things are quickly becoming clear: this isn’t my house, and I’ve stepped into something way more twisted than a home invasion.

Both of the figures are holding knives longer than their arms.  I put up my hands slash paws in what I hope appears as a non-threatening manner and slowly back down the stairs.  I’m not one to judge anyone else’s murder kinks.  I’m a werewolf, after all, and I’ve used many people as chew toys over the years.  That doesn’t mean that I want to become a part of whatever… this is.

Pighead and Jester advance towards the stairs at the same pace that I’m moving down them.  I’m not sure when I named them.  Must have been right now.  My grandmother always told me that I had the soul of a poet.

I reach the bottom of the stairs and extend one arm out behind me.  After fumbling around for a few seconds, my clawed hand finds the doorknob and tries to turn it.  The door is locked.  Of course it is.  I manage to locate the bolt and slide it open.  The entire time the two killers continue down towards me, the knives held out in front of them.

I try the doorknob again and this time it turns.  I practically fling the door open before turning and running as quickly as I can out into the front yard.  As I reach the gate, I leap over it and land a dozen feet on the other side.  I look over my shoulder as I dash down the street.  The killers don’t seem to be following me.  I put a few blocks between me and the house just to be sure.

When I finally stop, there’s yet another fit of vomiting.  I typically don’t throw up this much after drinking.  To be fair, I also don’t typically mistake my house for a different one that has a murder party going on inside.  So there’s that.

Just as I manage to catch my breath, the full moon disappears behind a group of thick clouds.  My transformation is reversed, and I quickly return to my human form.

I’m tired, I’m feeling sick, and I’m completely naked in the middle of a suburban neighborhood.

I can also really use a drink.