Plastic Fang

My eyes jolt open, greeted by a blurry vision of concrete. Dried blood and drool desperately attempt to cement me down. Now, where the hell am I?

I look down at my revolver and see silver staring back, housed snuggly in their rounds. A werewolf? Damn. Must have gotten the jump on me, kept hitting me until I went down. But why not finish the job?

Moonlight seeps in from an open window and that’s when I glimpse the kid huddled in the corner, fear his only friend. I use two fingers to beckon him to me. Ain’t gonna let a kid die on my watch.

“You okay, mister,” the kid asks. I nod. He smiles and his face is full of teeth. The kid knocks against the wall when I draw my gun, his teeth – dislodged – fall out. Plastic fangs. Damn.

“Come with me.” Turning, I hear the kid start to follow. Are the echoes of footsteps getting louder? Then I hear his growl. Halloween; and here I am feeling like it’s April Fools.

I turn to see patches of mottled hair and a wide, white grin. Lucky me, I didn’t holstered my gun.


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