“Fuck those werewolves,” Blythe said. “Once we take D.C. I ought to have the whole lot of them shot.”
Blythe sat on a red velvet couch in a small, cozy cabin. Devoid of any windows, the only light came from a few lit candles sitting on a table.
Sounds of lip smacking filled the room.
“Without humans to contend with, those hairy bastards will no doubt start strutting about in their werewolf forms all day long,” Blythe said. “And before you know it, they’ll be challenging us.”
Blythe waited for a response. Upon hearing none, he kept talking.
“I’ll be damned if everything I’ve worked for is going to be lost to a bunch of smelly dog men,” Blythe said.
The lip smacking continued.
“I say we as soon as we don’t need them anymore we line them up and shoot the whole lot of them in their ugly heads,” Blythe said. “Silver bullets all around.”
Blythe patiently waited for a response. Hearing none, he continued. “Oh, but I suppose the board will get their knickers in a twist over that idea too. They’ll tell me we need to make nicey-nice with our furry compatriots.”
The room grew quiet…and then…more lip smacking.
“Lamont?” Blythe asked. “Lamont, are you evening listening to me?”
From the other side of the couch, a response came in the form of a male with a cockney British accent.
“Sorry Guvnah,” the voice said. “A bit indisposed I is.”
The lifeless body of young woman dropped to the floor. Blythe took a candle and inspected her face. Pale. Drained of all color. Two holes in her neck.
Blythe looked to his right to see Lamar wiping his blood drenched lips on his shirt sleeve.
Lamont was big and brooding. Broad shouldered and muscular, with little more than black stubble covering his head.
“I didn’t offer you no gravy,” Lamar said as he retracted his fangs. “Was that wicked?”
“A trifle rude but I’m not hungry,” Blythe replied. “Did you hear a word I said?”
“Bob’s your Uncle, I did, I did,” Lamont replied. “Bit of a sticky wicket that business. A fluffy dog be a vamp’s best mate today but it could bite the hand wot feed it tomorrow, yeah? ‘Aint not use for a bollocks dodger but you might bide your ticks till it do the biting err right’s on your side, wot wot?”
“I have no idea what you’re saying half the time, Lamont,” Blythe replied. “But no matter. I need you to do a job for me.”
“A bit o’ the cat o’ nine tails, is it?” Lamont asked. “Flog your gullivah? Get down to brass tacks and make some brown bread, ay? Butcher’s hook for the ducks and geese. Might make me a bit knackered I nose but who is I to Barnaby Rudge?”
Blythe’s eyes widened with confusion. “Will you just grab your tool kit already?”
“Right-o,” Lamont said as he opened a closet. He removed a large tin box, set it up on the table and opened it.
Knives of all different shapes and sizes. Corkscrews. Surgical tools.
“Blood bags it is?” Lamont inquired.
That question, Blythe understood. “Blood bags it is,” he replied.
Bookshelf Battle 