B.E.A.S.T Bipedal Breed

Brute, Entity, Animalistic, Savage, Troglodyte

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Hirax La Bocca De La Bestia

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I tried, God knows I tried. We are three breeds down in my B.E.A.S.T. extravaganza and I can’t bring myself to halt now. Over the past few days I have accessed my inner savage and, as much fun as I’ve had, my blood lust is still unappeased. There can be only one option; I need to take my beast for one more stroll before consigning him back to his cellar. Thing is, I’ve covered man, beast and the ultimate evil of Marcus Miller so what other grimy stones could be left unturned? Lycanthropes or, to use their contemporary mantle, werewolves, have howled at the moon since the very conception of horror and, whilst not as spiritual as vampires, their folklore is every bit as relevant.

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Instinct plays a major part in Lycanthrope folklore. They are born predators and far less civil than their blood siphoning rivals. Whereas Nosferatu and his brethren are content politely quenching themselves via two diminutive incisions, Wolfgang and his elite of fuzzy bruisers will sip the sanguine fluids directly from your sternum without condiments or napkins. To add insult to heinous injury, they’ll even go as far as tweaking out individual ribs just to dislodge chunks of gristle from their molars. Bunch of bone lickers the lot of them.

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While Jacob and Edward jostle for the affections of their solemn señorita, werewolves have been enjoying something of a resurgence. It pains me to tip the Crimson Quill in the direction of Twilight but, admittedly, there’s been a lot more howling going on in the deep red glow of the full moon since its conception. If I had to choose from this insipid pair then I would be Team Jacob all the way. Fuck Edward and his broody bullshit; at least Jacob has a little blood in his gonads. Besides, he and his entourage go in sandpaper dry as opposed to lubing up like Team Edward and his band of pasty toffs. Anyhoots, I feel like I’m ignoring the elephant in the room. Peter Gallagher; I take it we are all familiar with this gentleman? I’m not sure how to tell you this so I’ll just go ahead and blurt it out. He’s a werewolf; plain and simple. You want proof? Okay, give me a few moments to rustle up a shanty.

Gallagher Theorum

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Greetings Peter, it’s a pleasure to meet cha
I’m dreadfully sorry but I’m here to defeat ya
don’t mean to be pompous or act like a preacher
but I’ve noticed a somewhat distinguishing feature

 

Your eyebrow’s unusual, allow me perusal
I simply won’t take an excuse or refusal
unless I’m mistaken, I’d swear you were faking
you have any idea of the rules you are breaking?

 

You pose as a man, at least that is your plan
so why is there hair in the palm of your hands?
if I threw you a bone I just know you’d retrieve it
I’d tell the whole world but they’d never believe it

 

I’m onto you now so get used to this scowl
as I’ll wait patiently for your very next howl
and should you grow hairy it simply won’t scare me
I’d suggest you make haste and return to the prairie

 

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Turns out that The Company of Wolves taught me much and I’m fairly positive that Peter Gallagher is hairy on the inside. Come to think of it, those Liverpudlian scoundrels Oasis have themselves some tasty growlers too. Keeper is going to lay off Noel, despite his brows being the bushier of the two, as I kinda dig his vibe to be plain. His dimwitted brother on the other hand houses an absolute turd truffle atop his shoulders and apparently believes himself to be some kind of a deity. No, that’d be your Brother Liam. We need to find the top dog in this wolf pack to stand any chance of breaking the curse. It couldn’t possibly be Liam Gallagher as he doesn’t possess the mental minerals to mastermind anything more than a whack-a-mole derby. If you asked me to trace the Lycanthrope family tree back then it would prove a laborious task for sure. But I’d do it if it shed some light.

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What am I doing getting all nostalgic and gazing affectionately through wolf hide spectacles? I need to fix the problem at hand as there are no answers in the past. And just this picosecond, under the brimful lambent moon, I believe I may have sussed it you know. It’s high time I pull the mask off our villain and reveal his identity. I’m going to need drum rolls for this one as my findings could send ripples across our entire free world and potentially change EVERYTHING! I shall count this down as it is too gargantuan a burning secret not to savor. Therefore I shall reveal in order three seemingly innocuous slides. The first and second shall be fellow pack-members but the third is the real top dog. Be prepared to spit pheasant feathers Grueheads.

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I knew there was a reason for Republicans. Turns out they were on Team Jacob all along. Fucking Bush. It was right in front of our stupid faces the whole time. Folk ridiculed Bush for his apparent lack of acumen when really the hapless twat was just exhausted from a night out on the prowl. While the Democrats were tucked up snug in their chambers, George was out skulking around shadowy dumpsters searching for KFC bucket cast-offs. I implore you to scrutinize all clues presented. Monobrow is the obvious but take a closer look. Anyone ever see his hands? Looks like he’s just tossed off a wookie. Here’s a bona fide howler I’m telling you; a real muck shuffler. I may not seem qualified to decipher such an advanced piece of kit as the Bush cranium multiplex but I know a hunch when I feel one and I can feel this way down to the tail of my plums.

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Just be mindful that when he was voted out of office it freed him up to go savage any non-believers, munching away one Democrat at a time. Any murder cases over the past five years have all been him. Cover-ups. Him also. It was likely Bush who turned Charlton Heston and I swear he’s behind Peter Gallagher too. All of this is neither hither nor dither as the fact remains…he’s still at large. Consider that, while he may be able to tear you apart limb from limb with his bare hands, he still has to find you first. Tie up your refuse sacks and stay away from the moors at all costs and maybe, just maybe, he won’t locate your scent trail.

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To poach a quote from Bush 101: “Rarely is the question asked: Is our children learning?” Well, Keeper’s got his own 101 and my nugget is this: “Rarely is the question asked: Is George Bush a werewolf?” Part of me wants to hang Bush out to dry like a pair of Auntie Maude’s handwashed bloomers whilst the other wishes him to get his own daytime chat show so I can boggle at his blathering further. I’m torn. Tell you what I’ll do…I’ll leave a trail of diced rump cubes to my front door than stake that shit out. When he gets to the penultimate chunk I’ll leap from the shadows and give him a swift foot-poke in the sternum. Even got my rejoinder licked. “This one’s for Heston biotch!”

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Case Solved. Fuck you Scrappy!

Keeper of the Crimson Quill

Copyright: Crimson Quill: Savage Vault Enterprises 2013 (Revised Edition 2015)

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