Copyright 1998 G. Dallman
July 4, 1998 Version 1.0
Revision Date: 07/05/98
"Cops" theme Copyright, Fox Broadcasting

Author's Note: Sometimes situations in real-life are the catalysts for some of my best stories. This story is the result of a particularly irritating incident that occurred to me on my way home from a 4^th of July picnic. (The first two paragraphs really happened!)

Another two miles and he'd be home. Contented and too well fed, Tal waited for his opportunity to pull over into the exit lane, slowing slightly to match speeds with the cars in the right-hand lane. Suddenly, motion on his left caught his eye as a red 'low-rider' Impala zipped past, abruptly changing lanes in front of him, braking hard. With only inches to spare, Tal slammed on the brakes, narrowly avoiding a collision.

As he looked up from the bumper perilously close in front of him, Tal's gaze was greeted by the sight of a too-clean-cut teen in the back seat of the low-rider, leering and waving a single finger phallicly.

Something in Tal's mind seemed to snap at the knowledge the punks in the car ahead had deliberately tried to precipitate an accident!

Mashing the accelerator to the floor, Tal raced ahead, narrowing the distance to the speeding Impala. With his right hand, he reached to the front passenger seat and grabbed his new digital camera he'd taken to the picnic. In a matter of seconds he was close enough to his quarry to take a very close-up picture of the mutated '73 Impala's license plate and idiotically grinning back-seat passenger.

With only the briefest glance at the side-mirror, Tal swerved into the left-hand lane, pulled even with the low-rider and took another picture, this time of the driver. Braking sharply, he pulled over onto the left-hand shoulder. He could see the bate was taken when the red low-rider stopped behind him.

As Tal got out of his car he tossed the camera back onto the seat and closed the door. Calmly, he held his key fob in front of him so the punks could see him press the button locking the doors. Putting his keys in his pocket, Tal leaned against the back of his car and waited.

He didn't have to wait long. A few seconds later, the Impala's doors opened and its two occupants climbed out. "Pretty-Boy" was the first to approach him. "Hey man, why'd ya go and do that for?" he whined.

"Do what?"

"You know what, dick-head! Now give me the camera and maybe I won't cut ya too bad!" Pretty-Boy reached down and pulled an eight-inch hunting knife from his right boot, waving it menacingly in front of him.

The driver, who Tal mentally dubbed, "Spiky", because of his blue spiked hair, laughed, "better give it to him man. He might be pretty, but he's a real jerk!"

"Ya, he is kind of cute, isn't he," Tal taunted. He could feel the quantum winds of Change building.

"I mean it man," screamed Pretty-Boy, goaded by the comment. "Gimme the camera!"

Slowly, Tal reached into his pocket and pulled out his keys again, holding them by the fob, waving them at the advancing punk. "You want it? Well, you'll just have to get these from me first."

Glancing over Spiky's shoulder, Tal could see an approaching State Patrol car, lights strobing, pulling up behind the low-rider.

Pretty-Boy was oblivious to everything but the keys waving in front of him like a toreador's cape. Becoming more agitated by the second, he frenetically bounced on the balls of his feet while closing the distance to his prey.

"Ok, dim-wit, you asked for it!" he shouted. With a quick feint to Tal's groin, the punk slashed upward, aiming for his face.

As his blade arced upward, Pretty-Boy suddenly felt a crushing pressure on his right wrist and looked up to see seven feet- three inches of angry werewolf standing in front of him, his arm locked in the creature's clawed right hand. Burning topaz eyes regarded him with predatory disdain.

In a blur of motion, the furred creature reversed his grip on the punk's wrist and bent it backward. Pretty-Boy screamed, as much from fear as pain, the pressure on his arm suddenly built to the breaking point.

"Drop yer little toy, boy," growled the thing that had been Tal Wolff.

Pretty-Boy tried to comply, but either because of panic or the crushing grip on the tendons in his arm, his fingers were frozen.

A bit more pressure and Pretty-Boy screamed louder, this time accompanied by a loud *crack* as his radius bone shattered.

Seeing the predicament befalling his brother, Spiky reached into the low-rider and pulled out an automatic pistol. "Hey! Fuzzy! Let go my brother!"

"Put it down or Pretty-Boy here goes home with his arm sticking out his ass!" growled the werewolf. As he spoke, the creature applied a little more pressure to the broken arm, eliciting another piercing scream and another, loud *crack*.

By this time, State Patrol Officer Piersonne had gotten out of his car and was cautiously approaching, weapon drawn. Spiky was torn between his screaming brother and the advancing officer. "Stop it! Stop it!" he shouted, in a high-pitched voice, unable to make up his mind what to do next. The State Patrol officer stared in disbelief, first at the werewolf and then at Spiky waving his gun.

Pretty-Boy was almost unconscious, being held up only by the creature's fierce grip on his broken arm. Seeing both the officer and Spiky's indecision, the werewolf taunted them, chanting a paraphrased version of the "Cops" theme, ending it in a long, wolven howl.

"Bad boy…Bad boy…Whutcha gonna do, whutcha gonna do when I come for yoooou!"

Piersonne wasn't sure if the werewolf was referring to himself or the spiked-hair punk.

As the creature sang, he flopped the punks broken arm back and forth in time to the beat, bringing more screams. The werewolf's low, growling voice gave the song a dark, menacing character the original never had.

Goaded by his brother's agony, Spiky started to raise his weapon but never got very far. As the nine millimeter Browning's barrel arced upward, the werewolf relaxed his grip on Pretty-Boy's arm, causing the knife to drop. In a single, blurred motion, he caught the blade in his left paw, throwing it underhanded. Three milliseconds later, accompanied by a meaty *thunk*, its hilt was protruding from Spiky's throat. With a wet, choking gasp, the older punk sank to his knees and then fell, face-down, on the pavement, a small glimmer of steel protruding from the back of his neck.

When Piersonne looked up from Spiky's body, there was a middle-aged man standing where the wolf-creature stood just seconds before. "Who are you?" he demanded, hesitantly holstering his weapon.

"Gosh, that was strange," muttered Tal, running his hands through his thinning hair and taking a cautious step back from the writhing Pretty-Boy. "These guys tried to run me off the road a second ago."

"I said…Who are you?" Officer Piersonne was in no mood for befuddlement.

"Ah…My name's Wolff, Tal Wolff," he replied, reaching into his back pocket for his wallet.

"Ya, I'll bet it is!" grumbled Piersonne. "I'll be damned," he grunted as he studied Tal's driver's license.

"What do you have to do with that tall, hairy guy that was here a minute ago?"

"What?" replied Tal, eyebrows raised.

"Goddamn it! Your standing right where he was!" shouted the officer, pointing toward Tal's feet.

"I really don't know what you're talking about," replied Tal.

"Well, you're coming with me until we get this all sorted out," grunted Piersonne as he reached for Tal's arm with one hand and his cuffs with the other.

Suddenly, he was pulling on an immovable object. Looking down, Piersonne saw he had a grip on a thick arm, covered in gray fur.

"You oughtn't ta have gone and done that, pilgrim," growled the werewolf in an octave-too-low, John Wayne imitation. Piersonne jumped back, letting go of the creature's arm as though it were red hot.

"Holy Shit!" he shouted, "What are you?"

"What?" muttered Tal, looking confused.

"All I wanna know is; who put the knife in that guy?" shouted Piersonne, pointing to the now-dead Spiky.

"He did!" replied Tal, pointing toward Pretty-Boy.

"Good enough! Now get the hell out of here!" Piersonne frantically groaned, becoming more sure by the second that he was going around the bend.

"See ya," growled the werewolf as he turned and walked back toward his car, tail wagging.

From the Everett Herald, July 5^th edition:

Washington State Patrol trooper Edward A. Piersonne was removed from active duty and placed on temporary medical leave after a series of seemingly incoherent radio communications in which he claimed to have witnessed a killing along Interstate 5, perpetrated by a werewolf. A suspect is in custody.

From the Everett Herald, July 6^th edition:

The Washington State Patrol is looking for witnesses to a murder which occurred on July 4 of this year along Interstate 5 half a mile south of the Grandview exit. Witness information will be held in the strictest confidence.