Identity Crisis of a Monster

- 1 -

I am looking into their bedroom window, and they are humping. Just utterly humping. I take my member into my fist and it is hard and massive, like a missile, or certainly a high-caliber bullet. From my apartment across the street, I see him sexually master her. There is just a complete sexual mastering going on, like the kind that makes the neighbors seriously consider knocking on the wall. I am in the Zone, just totally in the Zone, not like the Zones they have for short-term airport parking, but rather the Zone where I spackle the walls with my own burning man sauce. And there she blows, all over the screen window. I've found this can only be cleaned with plastic pipettes and a sobering amount of repeated poking motions, but for the moment I am happy. But then it happens. As I wipe off my member with a religious tract depicting an ethnically diverse group of children burning in Hell, the lights in their apartment come on, and I see the man bend down and eat heartily from a bowl of Purina Puppy Chow. For he is no man at all, but horror of horrors, a dog. Which is to say, I have just spent an hour masturbating to a canine-- and from the looks of it, probably not even a purebred. I feel, to quote the Dostoevsky novel of the same name, Insulted and Humiliated. And to quote the George Ancona book of the same name, Charro: The Mexican Cowboy.

- 2 -

How could it be? The dog must have been humping a pole, or possibly the maid, who might not have known enough English to ask that he stop. Unfortunately, such things happen when we loosen immigration laws and do not hire well-qualified border patrol officers. And suddenly I realize that I am almost definitely a werewolf. Why else would I fondle myself to a dog? I look up at the night sky and I realize that there is a full moon, and also that those rotating search lights probably means a hot celebrity-studded party is going down. But as far as the moon thing goes, it looks like yes, I am definitely a werewolf.

- 3 -

During the months that follow, I kill many people under full moons. Because this is what werewolves do. I figure, "one is what one is," to paraphrase the Italian criminologist Lombroso's theory of biological determinism, and also Popeye the Sailor Man. The first killing occurs on a snowy night in December. As I tail a waitress who has just left work, I take a hacksaw out of my jacket. I am excited about the task before me. My heart is pounding. When I finally reach the corner where I sell Christmas trees, I use the hacksaw to trim my conifers just like my customers like them. I experience the satisfaction that can only come from going that extra mile to please the client. Later that day I kill a kid with a Russian gas gun. The second killing occurs under a full moon just after New Year's. I grip a semi-automatic pistol in my pocket, and adrenaline courses through my veins. I have never done anything like this, and I am not exactly sure what has compelled me to do it tonight. I am trembling when I step up to the table that says "Gun Buy-Back Program" and exchange the gun for a $30 gift certificate at Record Town. Finally, I'll be able to buy that Bachman Turner Overdrive double CD. Later that night, I use a hammer to brain a man to death. The third murder comes under a full moon in February. I am following a black man down a deserted alley, and in my pocket I finger a long coil of rope. I am nervous. I know that what I am about to do is dangerous and impulsive, but the novelty of it excites me, and so I surrender to instinct. I finally resolve to join my friend Chuck for a weekend of roping cattle at his brother's dude ranch. I will have to remember to buy plenty of hemorrhoids cream, if City Slickers 2 is any indicator. Later that day, I shoot a passing motorist from a highway overpass.

- 4 -

I kill twenty people before realizing that maybe, after all, I am not a werewolf-- maybe there is another reason entirely that I fondled myself to a canine, and that is that perhaps I need stronger eyewear. It is a realization that causes me some embarrassment, especially since I am driving around with at least two and a half corpses in my trunk. I tell myself: "So there was no reason for you to kill all those innocent people who were just doing their best to fill life with goodness and with love. At least not on full moons, anyway." A free exam at Eyemasters confirms my suspicions, but I am afraid it will not stop me from killing. Because the other day I sipped off a pool of blood caused by a dozen well-placed sledgehammer blows, and damn if I'm not pretty sure I'm a vampire.

About the author:

Daniel Maurer's humor and non-fiction has appeared in a variety of web sites, print magazines, newspapers, and one time in pig's blood on someone's window. See more at