The moon was full. The moors were empty. Inside the 'Rick and the Baker' pub, villagers milled about nervously, listening to the feral howls that sliced through the fog like razor-sharp talons. Even the most macho Irishman seemed jittery, even frightened by the never-ending din surrounding the rural countryside. So jittery in fact with each blood-chilling bay, darts were thrown errantly in seemingly every direction but toward the target. So many innocent bystanders were struck by mis-thrown darts a local nurse was kept on the payroll to administer tetanus shot as well as treating botulism from tainted Irish stew. 

Tourists were warned to avoid the treacherous moors. Most complied. Those who didn't seldom survived to hear a second warning. It is said there are more bodies in the moors than Arlington. I suspect that is hyperbole but still don't want to take census there. It is also rumored that even in the densest fog a creature's red eyes can be seen glaring thru the mist,  never blinking, never looking away. Locked onto anyone foolhardy enough to trespass in its domain. 

I'm Lucille McGillicutty. Lucy to friends. 'Loose' to even better friends. I came to the Emerald Isle on vacation. Being a huge movie buff, especially the vintage Universal Studio classics, I heard folk tales of werewolves in this vicinity and had to investigate. The allure of ginger,  emerald-eyed Irish lassies certainly added to my excitement. I even used Irish Spring soap to blend in.

I've always been fascinated by werewolves in cinema from Lon Chaney Jr. to David "I'm a Pepper" Naughton to the greatest lycanthrope of all, Butch Patrick. That list is predominantly male although Dee Wallace is easily the cutest werewolf on record. My heart broke when she bit the silver bullet. The 'Howling' is a personal favorite of mine because of her presence as well as the presence of the late, great character actor Dick Miller. It was my first day here and already the persistent howling was more terrifying than binge-watching the Masked Singer.

I leaned against the bar and ordered my first pint of Guinness. The young, redhead barmaid delivered it with a smile as contrived as a hooker's kisses. "I want to thank you," she said  politely.

"Thank me?"  I replied. 

"Yes. You're the first Yank to ever come in here and not order a bowl of Lucky fuckin' Charms," she said with contempt.

At first, I thought she screwed up and brought a Coke due to its dark color. But after that lecture I wasn't about to complain since Americans are not renowned for our congeniality throughout the world. I know we aren't as cordial as Canadians, but who is?  Sipping the dark brew, the frothy head tickling my nose, I knew immediately it wasn't Coke. Strong on my taste buds. Now I know why it's called 'stout' because it most definitely lived up to the name. I must have contorted my face horribly from the taste because the locals began laughing wildly and no doubt saying something derogatory in their thick, indecipherable brogue. I mistakenly thought they spoke English here. I was thoroughly confused, like watching Kubrick's 2001: a Space Odyssey for the first or twentieth time.

Their laughter ceased immediately as I asked Aina, the attractive barmaid, how to get to the moors. A collective gasp filled the now silent public house. She glanced around nervously as if she had silently passed gas. I could hear indistinct murmurs around me as she leaned in and drew a map on a crumpled, greasy napkin. "First walk past the Black Lagoon then left at the Bay of Blood. On the right, you'll see the house that dripped blood. Keep going past the house by the cemetery but if you see the house on haunted hill, you've gone too far. You can't miss it. But I must insist you settle your tab before leaving, sorry."

"Do you think I'm a deadbeat?" I asked.

"No," was her curt response. "I can't speak for the 'beat' part but we're all quite certain ye will be dead." The Irish were not a cheerful lot it seems.  A commotion at the door made everyone turn cautiously. Entering noisily came an unruly, motley crew carrying torches, pitchforks, and clubs, straight from a James Whale casting call. I prayed it wasn't my Uber. I asked Aina who they were. "That's our local posse," she replied matter-of-factly. 

"Great," I beamed. "I like me some local posse."

She sneered and loudly proclaimed, "Aye, I could tell that as soon as ye walked in the door." (I should consider a more fem wardrobe.)

Collecting my makeshift map, I walked to the door but not before stopping to survey the vintage Rock-Ola jukebox. There were the obligatory U2 and Van Morrison songs as well as only one by Sinead O'Connor (still one too many for my cultured taste.) There were also surprise selections by Warren Zevon and a band called Sam the Sham and the Pharaohs (I kid you not). Before I could make it to the well-fortified door I was manhandled by two morticians offering today's specials on cremation. I did get a free urn as a lovely parting gift, however. With one restraining each arm they began waxing poetic about the local cemetery.

"It's so nice, people are dying to get in," one said as the other blew layers of dust off that tired joke. It was so bad even the wolves were booing or perhaps going "Bruce" to request more Springsteen on the jukebox. I finally stepped outside and took a deep breath. It smelled like death. Either that or an Arbys was near. I then noticed I was being followed by a tall, refined-looking gent in a tweed hunting jacket.

He identified himself as Winston in a sexy, British accent.

"Pardon me, m'lady but I heard your plans inside. I must ask, do you have a death wish?" He asked in a worried tone.

"No. I had the Bruce Willis remake on Blu ray but sold that stinker at my yard sale." He didn't seem disappointed nor should he be.  The Bronson version is much better.

"If you must persist on this charade (pronounced in that silly, pretentious manner I detest) allow me to provide you with a few helpful survival tips. First, should you hear huffing and puffing in your vicinity I suggest you RUN to the nearest brick dwelling. Second, do not sing Stevie Nick's 'Cry Wolf' under any circumstance. For some reason, it makes the creature howl at the moon and becomes overly amorous."

"That's ok. Stevie has the same effect on me." Ending the conversation, I turned and began trekking over the sodden marshland, the fog so thick I expected John Carpenter to appear any moment. Immediately, my finest lesbian boots became mired in the muck. "What do I do now?" I called back to Winston.

"Do you see a white line ahead of you?"

I did. "Do I walk the line?"

"No, Johnny Cash, you don't. Stay to the right of it and you'll stay safe...well, safer. Pip pip!"

Now free to move about despite losing two new boots in the quagmire, I continued my search for the fabled creature. I was hopeful, full of the eternal optimism normally reserved for Cleveland Browns fans. I still feared the entire thing was a hoax, perhaps a large dog with fake fangs straight from Scooby-Doo but I had to find out. Hoax or not, my nerves were frayed. In the distance, a lone trumpeter played 'Taps' which did little to improve my trepidation. My anxiety was making me ill. I hadn't felt this miserable since a Bieber concert.

The howls now felt and sounded closer as if ricocheting off the impenetrable fog. I could see two red orbs shining through but could only hope someone had put Christmas decorations up very early. Turning on my flashlight, I discovered it didn't work. I simultaneously discovered I had picked up my vibe by mistake. At least I wouldn't die alone. Behind me came a loud cracking sound as a twig snapped, making me thankful for bringing a change of undies. "Who's there?" I shouted as if expecting the wolf to answer like I was taking attendance in homeroom. I nervously squinted into the darkness. Amid the sounds of crickets and cicadas, with nocturnal creatures scurrying about unbothered by my intrusion, I felt a hand or perhaps paw rest firmly on my tense shoulder. Immediately I lost consciousness, never expecting to wake again.

But, awake I did, unsure of how many hours had passed. My eyes nervously pried open. I found myself embraced by a soft feather mattress, covered with a hand-sewn quilt like my granny made for my ill-fated hope chest. It was still dark but the bright moonlight beaming through the window gave me the opportunity to view my new surroundings. I expected a hospital room or possibly a funeral parlor. To my relief, it was a tastefully decorated cottage. It exuded coziness although a fixer-upper like the Douglas home on Green Acres. In the distance I heard music, Bad Company's 'Running With the Pack.' Lifting the quilt I discovered my clothes were gone except for my pale-blue panties.

I spotted a closet across the room and chose to investigate, hoping to find my clothes hanging there. On bare feet, I tiptoed and looked inside. No clothes there, instead the only garment was something looking like sheep's clothing, perhaps a Halloween costume. Continuing my search of the room I was pleasantly surprised to see my good Samaritan was a fellow movie buff. Sitting atop a small TV, were two DVDs: Who's Afraid of Virginia Wolfe and Wolf of Wall Street, both guilty of false advertising since there was nary a wolf to be found.  I was interrupted by a door opening. In came a gorgeous brunette, walking so stealthily her footsteps were inaudible.

Her eyes looked at me, practically devouring. She wore a red hoodie that appeared too small, perhaps belonging to a young daughter. But I wasn't complaining. It clung to her athletic body as she pranced through the small room. She extended her hand. "I'm Lobolita, Lobo to my friends. Welcome to my den...uh..home." I had hundreds of questions but I couldn't look away from her hand. Her grip was surprisingly strong with nails long and filed into sharp points. Perhaps that's an Irish trait, better to dig potatoes with.

"How did I get here and where are my clothes?" I enquired as her hungry eyes surveyed my bare chest, nipples stiff from the cold. (Yeah, the cold. That's the only reason.)

She explained, "I found you passed out in the woods and was concerned about you. Haven't you heard about the big, bad wolf roaming our village?" With that, she threw her head back and howled, her teeth as sharp and pointed as her nails. Damn, doesn't this country have manicurists OR dentists? Maybe I'm just too observant. Nothing gets past my eagle eyes. "As for your clothes, I'm washing them. Shan't be long, dearie. If it makes you less self-conscious, I could undress as well."

"That is a wonderful idea," I exclaimed, applauding and hopping excitedly. She tugged the red hoodie over her head and more surprises were awaiting. Exposed now, I began counting. Instead of the more traditional two nipples Lobo had six. I could foresee lockjaw in my immediate future. After counting my blessings I looked about the room, seeing a doll on the floor, its head mutilated. I asked if she had a dog. She told me no dogs just a small litter still living at home. Her husband, she explained was at a Dublin zoo. "Oh, he works there?" I asked.

"He's more an exhibit," she replied sadly. I understood her embarrassment. An exhibitionist in the family can be most troubling. Once again she began staring at my exposed body. "Nice rack!" She said, licking her lips, salivating. I blushed until realizing she was addressing a rack of lamb hidden beneath the bed. Lifting it, drooling like Donald Trump at a Moscow brothel, she bit into it lustfully. My lust was also on the rise. She noticed and peeled her panties down seductively, exposing the hairiest bush since vintage porn. It looked like a Brillo display. If a spark struck it, the entire UK would go up in smoke. She easily detected my wide-eyed appraisal and asked, "Are you turned off by my fur... uh...hair... uh hair fur? I'm old-fashioned that way. I think girls bare down there look slutty."

I fidgeted, glad my panties were still on since I'm as smooth as an iconic Carlos Santana song 'down there.' Worrying about my image, I wondered if I had time to order a merkin from Amazon. I was immediately distracted as her lips fastened to my vastly outnumbered nipples. I pulled her closer and began returning the favor. Kissing and licking, moving quickly from nipple-to-nipple like an X-rated version of connect-the-dots, I soon had her whimpering and baying. Easing her onto the bed I boldly went down on her hirsute muff, coughing up two furballs in the process. She had a distinctive taste, almost gamey, still much better than other Irish cuisine I had sampled.

Her abundant pubic hair was so coarse it scratched my face as if I'd gone down on a porcupine. But that didn't deter me since I always travel with an ample supply of Neosporin. Spreading her surprisingly muscular legs while being cautious around her razor-edged toenails, my tongue found her honey pot. Her appreciative howls were so loudly intense, framed photos of Jack Nicholson and Wolfman Jack crashed to the floor. The only one remaining intact was one of Lon Chaney dancing with the Queen. She next wrapped her brawny legs around my head and squeezed, like popping a zit. At this point in a relationship, I normally work nipple-twisting into the act, but she presented me with so many options I would end up with carpal tunnel so I resorted to slapping her hip. Apparently, she didn't have a spanking fetish because the bitch actually snarled and snapped at me. Her fetid breath made my face so hot it seemed to melt like a Nazi in Raiders of the Lost Ark.

After her orgasm, the ungrateful bitch struggled to her feet and began pacing nervously around me, almost stalking. She then squatted and began peeing on me. As the yellow, foul-smelling liquid sprayed I didn't know if she marking her territory or was simply kinky. I was hoping for the latter since I have a large butt plug and some Nutella in dire need of action. She then yawned and laid next to me, curling into a ball with her nose nestled against her anus. (Kinky she indeed was) As I laid there unsatisfied, I found a femur concealed beneath the bed. I didn't question where it came from but I sure knew where it was going.

Peeling my moist, clinging panties off and playfully placing them over her head, I slowly worked the bone into my very needy pussy. Even the areas where the bone had been gnawed provided additional stimulation. Biting my lip to keep from waking Lobo, my climax was quick and powerful. I considered curling myself as she did until remembering my bad back. Instead, I rolled onto my stomach and slept the sleep of the satisfied.

My slumber came to an abrupt end as I heard alarming snarling inches from my ear along with scraping sounds on the hardwood floor and deep breathing, almost huffing. Hot breath on my cheek. I wanted to scream but realized I was incapable of speech due to my fear-induced paralysis. Eventually, I found the courage to open my eyes then immediately wished I hadn't. Before me stood a huge wolf, glaring down at me, about to pounce. Its blood-red eyes cutting through my soul. Even in my terrified state, I couldn't help but wonder why my panties were now sitting atop its enormous head. I faced my own demise at least knowing Lobo must have escaped. She was nowhere to be seen. Looking at the wolf directly, I bravely passed out.

I awoke to the sound of shotgun blasts followed by mournful howls of the wolf. I had been saved by villagers like in the movies. Then, sadly, I awoke again. Fooled by another movie trick; the loathed dream sequence. I was still lying prone on the floor with the wolf still towering over me, drooling, tummy growling. I prayed to any deity who might listen until my brain shut down in fear, allowing me to succumb to the soothing darkness. I felt no pain as I expected, instead a surprising sense of lightness as if now unburdened by the weight of a cruel world. I had no out-of-body experience. I didn't float. I always suspected that was televangelist BS so I wasn't disappointed. My only disappointment was realizing I now must dictate this long-ass story through a Ouija board. Finally, I slept more soundly than ever before. But now something woke me yet again.

I was still in the dark but now a small girl was holding my hand as we walked down a long corridor. "Are you God?" I asked timidly.

She gave a delightful young-girl giggle and answered with a huge smile, "No, dumbass, I'm Carol Anne. I'm your guide. Now, please follow me into the light. Your Kurosawa film festival is about to begin. We were waiting for you before starting the Seven Samurai." In the well-lit distance I could see my Mother waiting, smiling with her arms outstretched. My childhood dog, Scotty, came running to me, tail wagging excitedly, like a metronome on speed. 

I ran to them, tears in my eyes. But, for once they were finally happy tears.