He sat there for about five minutes until a small gray Schnauzer walked along the side of the road toward him. No collar. He wondered if it was a stray.

He heard the engine of an approaching car. Sometimes, things just worked out perfectly.

The dog looked at him and let out a sharp bark.

“Fuck you,” he told it. He continued to concentrate.

The dog walked into the middle of the road and began to happily move in the direction of the oncoming car.

Poor, poor doggie. Ivan chuckled as the dog, its tongue hanging partly out of its mouth like a complete moron, trotted along toward its doom. I think I’ll name you...Roadkill.

The car, a white sedan, came around the corner. The driver swerved at the last instant, missing the Schnauzer by the length of its stubby tail, and then careened off the road.

The dog ran off.

Well, shit. He’d hoped to see the dog get creamed and to disable the vehicle. Oh well.

Ivan stood up, jogged over to the car, and opened the passenger-side door. The driver, a bald man who was too young to be naturally bald, seemed shaken up but not hurt. He’d been wearing his seatbelt. Smart lad.

“You okay?” Ivan asked.

“Yeah...stupid dog ran right in front of me...” The man sounded kind of dazed. That wasn’t any good. Ivan wanted him fully aware of what was about to happen.

“Did you injure yourself?” Ivan asked. “Do you need me to seek the services of a medical professional? If you have one of those new cellular phone devices, I could probably call for assistance.” He climbed into the car next to the man, who looked shocked at both Ivan’s shredded pants and the fact that he was getting into the car uninvited.

“I don’t need--”

“Shut the fuck up,” Ivan told him, pulling the door shut. He gave him a wide smile, revealing his werewolf teeth. “Spooooooky, huh?”

The man immediately reached for his door handle. Ivan decided to go half-werewolf. The one bitch he had about his lycanthropy was that he couldn’t talk as a wolfman, so he went for the not-quite-as-hairy, not-quite-as-muscular, but still clearly wolfish and scary look. It was actually kind of demonic.

The man screamed.

Ivan laughed at him, a low, sexy growl of a laugh that the ladies found ever so alluring. Then he showed him his claws. “You try to leave this car and these are going right into you.”

The man kept screaming, so Ivan said it again, louder. Then he raked his claws across the man’s chest. “Shut up!”

“Oh, God, please don’t hurt me!”

“I just did hurt you, dumb-ass. Do you like your head?”

“What?”

“I said, do you like your head? It’s not a challenging question. Yes or no. Do. You. Like. Your. Head?”

“Yes.”

“Then don’t make me rip it off and drink from it like a juice box, all right? What size shirt do you wear?”

“A...a large.”

“I look better in a medium, but I prefer large for comfort, so that’ll work just fine. What’s your name?”

“What are you?”

“What the fuck do you think I am? A Martian? Come on, buddy; I know you’re scared, but think before you ask stupid questions. Now apologize to me for wasting my time.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Apology accepted. I asked you your name.”

“Dale.”

“Like Chip and Dale? The squirrels?”

“Yes.”

“Or Chippendales. Wow. Never thought of that before. I wonder if it was intentional.”

“I...I don’t know.”

“That’s okay. I wasn’t really asking. Chip and Dale, I guess they aren’t squirrels, are they? They’re chipmunks. Chip the Chipmunk. That’s a pretty lame name for a cartoon character when you take Dale out of it, don’t you think? The Disney writers weren’t having a good day. Now it’s my turn to apologize to you--we’re getting pretty far off the subject at hand, which is your shirt size.”

“Yes.”

“Yes? What were you saying yes to? Were you agreeing that I need to apologize to you?”

“No. I mean--I don’t know.”

“Why the hell would I apologize to you? I don’t owe you a thing, Dale. How dare you? I mean, how dare you?”

“I’m sorry!”

“Oh, don’t be so gullible, I’m just messing with you. Clearly my whole Chip and Dale bit was wasting your time, and I do owe you an apology, so from the bottom of my werewolf heart, I’m sorry. Now let’s talk about me ripping your guts out.”

Dale looked as if he wanted to say something, most likely “What?” or “No!” or “Please!” but couldn’t find his voice.

“Oh, don’t look so surprised,” Ivan said. “You knew I was going to kill you as soon as I turned into a scary monster. Do you want to know why I’m going to do it?”

“I...”

“For your clothes. That’s it. No other reason. I’m going to end your life, all however many years of it...how old are you?”

“Thirty-two.”

“...all thirty-two years of it for your shirt. And I don’t even like your shirt. How does that make you feel, Dale?”

Dale threw a punch at him. Ivan deflected the blow with his palm with very little effort, then used the same hand to grab Dale’s wrist. Then, with the index finger of his other hand, he slashed a line across the length of Dale’s entire arm, opening it up like a zipper. Dale, not surprisingly, screamed.

Sweet. Ivan had thought Dale might be too paralyzed with fear to actually fight back, so this would make things more interesting.

“Did that hurt? I hope so. That’s just a sneak preview, by the way. A tasty little sample of the main attraction. I really feel sorry for you and the hellish pain you’re going to endure. I’m sure glad I’m not the one sitting here in a car with a sadistic werewolf.”

“I’ve got money!” Dale said.

“Lots?”

“Yes.”

“How much?”

“Thousands.”

“Here?”

“Not with me, but--”

“Sorry. You just failed to save your life. Any other good bribes?”

“You don’t have to do this!”

“I realize that. I like that it’s optional.”

“I’ll do anything.” Dale finally succumbed to tears. Ivan had expected that part to happen a bit sooner.

“Oh, now, Dale, there’s no reason to cry. You say you’ll do anything. Would you...take a knife and cut out your own stomach?”

“What?”

“If I gave you a knife, would you cut out your own stomach? I wouldn’t make you eat it or anything--although, come on, let’s be honest, it would be pretty cool to watch somebody eat his own stomach. I’d just make you cut it out. Do that and I’ll let you go.”

“I can’t do that.”

“Then don’t say shit like ‘I’ll do anything’ if you don’t mean it. Would you slash your own throat? Would you jam a stiletto heel in your heart? Would you give yourself brain surgery? I hate it when people throw out offers that they’re not prepared to honor.”

Dale began to sob.

“Where were you headed?”

“Home.”

“To your wife?”

“No.”

“Do you have a girlfriend?”

“No.”

“Why not?

“I don’t know.”

“Is it because you’re bald?”

“No.”

“When did you last get laid?”

“I don’t know.”

“Liar. Somebody who looks like you knows exactly how long ago it was. Tell me.”

“Three weeks.”

“Hey, that’s not so bad. I thought it would be six months or something like that. Was she a prostitute?”

“No.”

“One of those Internet booty calls?”

“Sort of.”

“Sort of? Details, please.”

Dale sniffed. “We met online, but I’d seen her in person a couple of times.”

“Gotcha. Do you need a Kleenex or something? Your nose is all snotty. You wouldn’t want your hot Internet sex bunny to see you like this, would you?”

“No.”

“Are you going to see her again?”

“No.”

“Because you broke up, or because I’m going to murder you?”

“We weren’t really together.”

“She was a hooker, wasn’t she?”

“I said no.”

“Was she a skank?”

“No.”

“Do you love her?”

“No.”

“Do you love anybody?”