THE BEAST WITHIN

Sam didn't have a choice. He was cuffed in irons to a couple of solid slabs of cement. He knew he was a werewolf, the town knew he was a werewolf... hell, the next town over knew he was a werewolf. Of this fact, there was no denying. The problem was, however, that Sam LeFleur happened to be the mayor of Tumbleweed Gulch, and the town as a whole -though completely in the know of Sam's permanent lycanthropy- loved him. He was fair, mildly stern (mayhaps an oxymoron, but the truth none the less), friendly, courteus almost to a fault, and never underhanded or dirty. Be that as it may, Sam was a ravaging, murderous killer hiding beneath human flesh and it took naught but a full moon to unleash the fury within him. Sam prided himself on maintaining peace and a modicum of justice -more so than could be said for most other Western towns- and upheld high standards for his citizens that would best even those in Dodge City or, God forbid, Tombstone. So, as he hung his head and waited for the inevitable, he spoke silently a prayer that just once, the coming complete lunar face wouldn't turn him into the rampaging monster he'd come to reluctantly live with. Yet, as the clouds cleared and Sam glanced heavenward, his loins sank and the feeling of his bowels filling in an instant washed over him like Yellow Fever. His face shot taught, his eyes bulged, his ribs and spine squeaked and groaned under the pressure of their transformation. His hands -aching under the curling as they arced themselves into entirely knew shapes- forced a yelp of agony from Sam's rearranging throat and it exited his mouth more akin to a yowl. His knees buckled, the bones and tendons in his legs loosed and rewound, and a short tail burst with a crack from his buttox. The chains were strong. They were made with the finest metals from the most experienced blacksmiths in town. Yet, with the expanse of Sam's newly located muscles, they bent with splintering metal, and burst apart showering the area with shards of chain. Sam shook his furred hide, licked his chops, and announced his evil presence to the pale moon with a defiant howl. And then he was off.

Morning came. Sam woke in the meadow fifteen miles outside of town in Farmer Gillin's property. The carcasses of no less than six sheep lay strewn about the area. Sam sighed, stood, and made his way to the house. He knocked, looked about as sheepish as his fresh kills, nodded an apology to the sad nod of Gillin's, and signed an IOU voucher for the cost of the sheep. He was good for it. Then, under a shroud of shame, sam trudged back to town to begin his day as Mayor. The moon wouldn't be completely full again for weeks. Just enough time to begin paying back his debts.

NOTHING AS IT SEEMS

By the time everything smelled like peanut butter, The floors had begun to buckle and slide, slowly, into the wet pit of pureed gerbils. For several minutes nothing but bats and hyenas shuffled into the room. There wasn't too much to do; since roughly noon, the footprints tracked from the spilled corn meal collected across the walls like a yellow-speckled mural. The ceiling, now riddled with socks, plastic Sporks, and Baseball Cards, waved and shifted with the weight of the twelve rhinos pacing above. Six of the nineteen doors that lined three of the eleven walls opened and closed in unison as batch after batch of electric clowns spilled forth from an entirely separate dimension. So, in the middle of the room, slightly askew to center, stood Jennifer. She was pretty, plain in a neighborly sort of way, and as platinum blond as one could be without having a main of stark white hair. She wore her New York Knicks tank top, though not a fan of basketball, and a pair of Cargo shorts that looked as though they were a size or so too small. Her feet were freezing atop the frigid marble floors, but she realized that her Nike shoes were untied. Having discovered a bucket of live baboons right next to her on the right and a squeaking, splintering box of angry Yard Gnomes to her left, she was remiss as to which she'd have to lug the forty miles to the opposite wall. Sighing with complete ineptitude, Jennifer adjusted her fisherman's waders, tucked her plaid lumberjack's coat into her corduroys, and began the mountainous, arid expanse of world in front of her. She'd chosen the box.