Marla

“But, he is my brother!” Jose cried into the night.

As the words crossed his lips, he wondered what good would it do? The wolves rarely leave their prey alive. They ask their questions, and then feast upon the remains of the tortured soul who wandered into the wrong dark alley at the wrong time. He knew that the only family these cared about came with a fur coat once a month. His first thought was to run to his grandmother’s house, melt down the silverware, and visit his friend who packs bullets. This was a traditional move, old school in fact. These weren’t old school werewolves. They were part of the new school, and genetic manipulations had made it next to impossible to attack these guys with traditional means.

Two hours, three different plant nurseries, a home improvement store, and a trip Radio Shack later he was ready.

He dubbed his silver nitrate slinging leaf-blower Marla, and made peace with his maker. He would avenge his brother’s death tonight.