Rise of the Leatherwolf, Pt.4

Nano? What's that? Yeah, I'm not really doing that. But here's the next installment of "Rise of the Leatherwolf"! Warning: transformation.

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Henry sat at one of the dingy tables at The Dawnrazor and tuned out the world around him. That was easy enough to do, because the bar was nearly deserted. Thursday was not anyone’s choice of a party night, and the goth-gay-leather bar scene in town possibly consisted of only Henry and Steven and bartender Billy. It was slow enough that Billy had a tablet out and was vigorously designing something with a stylus on the screen, while Steven was seeing how deep of a cut he could inflict via the internet jukebox.

“Hey, you want any more over there?” Billy called out, and waggled a bottle of scotch.

“I wanted to fucking calm my nerves, not get drunk,” Henry yelled back, then returned to what he was doing. He had several different padlocks set out in front of him, and was tenderly fidgeting with one to keep it steady while he attempted to prod around inside with a lock-pick and torsion wrench.

“Yes, because picking locks in the middle of a gay bar is the perfect way to calm your nerves.”

“No, dumbass, the liquor…” but Henry trailed off as he used his thumb to apply torque to the filed allen key he had made into a torsion wrench, and the lock snapped open. “Mmm. Fucking finally.”

Steven and Billy looked to each other, then Billy swiped his towel up over his shoulder and went to tidy up more. Steven quickly leaned over and tapped Billy’s tablet before it went to sleep, made a curious face, then shrugged and walked over to Henry. “I saw something once, on a television show-”

“Who fucking says the whole word, ‘television’?”

“-As I was saying, I saw some police officer using this gun thing to open a lock. You should try it. It might be faster. What are you trying to pick locks for, anyway?”

“That box is locked,” Henry said, moving on to his second practice lock. 

Steven turned a chair around and sat facing the back, slender arms hugging around the backrest. “Ahh, yes, the box is locked, and you must unlock it. But you haven’t the key,” he said, and put on a wistful face. Then he slid his vape pen out, took a drag from it, and spewed a stream of vapor into the air. Billy caught him and scowled. “Oh yes, I know I’m not supposed to do this. I’m bad. I’m terrible,” he said, then tapped several times on the pen and the end of it flickered green. He drew and puffed out again, and this time the cloud scintillated with laser light. 

Henry, meanwhile, had unlocked the second padlock and he moved on to the third, oblivious to Steven’s flagrant ignorance of the anti-smoking regulations.

“Excuse me, I was annoying you here,” Steven groused.

Henry set the third lock down with a clack. “Look at this place. Does it look like there are any other patrons?” He quivered with excitement as he tried to contain the rush of suppressed anger roiled by Steven’s relentless snark, then as it rushed past his lips like an orgasm. “Do you think it’s me? Nah, I’m just over here, doing something weird in the fucking shadows. You, you’re always fucking on everything, everyone, every fucking word that comes outta someone’s mouth. That’s you. It’s like a tic or something.” 

Steven lifted his eyebrows and sat up straight, too shocked to speak. 

“I mean, who’s gonna come here when there’s fucking factory night at The Tangerine? A big, pounding dance club, and anyone can show up. Here, it’s gay guys, but they gotta be what, punk and leather and goth all at once? You were playing Fields of the fucking Nephilim on the jukebox! And, you made a big deal out of my dick in the bathroom. So what if I have a horse dick?”

Billy walked around from behind the bar, betraying the fact that he was the only employee on premises. The bar had no visible bouncer anywhere. 

“I’m sorry, are you upset that I complimented your gargantuan penis?” Steven continued, unable to resist the bait.

“I mean was this whole thing an elaborate attempt to get into my pants or something? Because it didn’t work,” Henry said, then turned his attention back to his lock. Still fuming unexpectedly, he gave a good twist of his makeshift torsion wrench and the lock popped open with another snap. The second the sound hit his ears, he felt instantaneous revulsion towards everything around him. The table, chairs, the rest of the bar, the music, Steven, Billy. “It got me here, I guess, so good on that. But I’m gonna bail outta here.” He got up and headed for the exit, itching inside as if suddenly rashy with thoughts. 

Outside was no better, clammy and room temperature, a foggy night that would be beautiful in the nearby woods but was filthy in downtown. Steven rushed out behind him. “You forgot your padlocks, Sir,” he called out. 

“I don’t need that shit,” Henry growled, then set off again.

“You can’t just litter, then. Very rude. Disrespectful. Poor Billy would have to clean up-”

“What the fuck is up with you?” Henry spun on a boot heel. 

“Me? What? You’re the one losing it. You spent hours in there picking at your weird padlocks. In a bar. In public. I understand having time for hobbies now that you don’t have to go to work, but really now.” Steven dangled the locks from his fingers as if holding something slimy. His vape pin blinked up at his face and he pulled it back out, then blew another scintilating green cloud. 

“Look, Steven, I’m sorry. I don’t wanna fight, but I also don’t want some tiny-dicked goth traipsing around after me, either. I’m alright. I’m just trying to occupy myself so I don’t feel like a sad sack of shit so much. You happy?”

“I love being insulted as part of apologies!” Steven cackled, and then set the padlocks down on top of a garbage can. “And what did you just say? Did you just say I have a tiny dick?”

“Yeah. You have such a tiny, uh, dick, that your show-off thing fell outta your pants in the bathroom.” Henry pointed back to the club and tried to get rid of his fuming anger by playing for comedy. Steven did not look amused; Henry still fumed inside. 

“That is not a show-off thing, and I don’t have a tiny dick.” Steven now looked rankled, like something smelled. 

Henry shrugged. “Then what was that thing for? I mean it’s for showing off, having a big old bulge, right?” He grappled with himself to demonstrate. Someone passing by on the other side of the street gawked, not expecting that kind of display at this time of night.

“Well, it makes you look like you have a bulge. Which is very useful, when you don’t.” 

Henry stared now confused. The inner unsettled fuming anger wanted to drive him away from where he stood so strongly that he was able to hold it over to the side as a strange fluke. “You don’t?”

“Did I not tell you?” Steven half-laughed. “Oh shit, I guess I didn’t tell you. A shark bit it off.” Henry just continued to stare. Steven sighed and unbuttoned his shirt beneath his vest. “Let’s try this.” He flung it open, exposing his wiry chest, muscles defined only because there was little fat to hide them, or his ribs. Beneath each of his pectorals was a dark scar in the pale skin. 

Henry winced.

“Ahh, yes, it hurt, because it was surgery, but it was also great. I don’t want boobs. Boobs aren’t for me. Top surgery. I’m trans? Holy shit, I really didn’t tell you! Well, now you know. And so do those people who are staring at me like I’m a crazy homeless person even though I’m not,” Steven said, and turned to the audience across the street, raising his voice to a harsh stage holler. He then flipped them off and buttoned his shirt back up.

Henry continued wincing, not from the revelation but as he felt worse every second. “I really feel fucked up right now. No offense, I mean, it’s… I just gotta get back home.” He turned and waved, half-friendly and half-dismissive, and stormed towards home. His body went through every attention-getting sensation at its disposal - flop sweat, racing heart, frothy mouth, and finally a gnawing quiver that turned into nausea.

He rushed up the stairs to his apartment with the sweating determination of someone in desperate need of a bathroom, but the sensation blew away as soon as he actually set foot across his threshold. The altercation with Steven - the entire time at the bar - was a distant, vague memory, even though it had been only fifteen minutes earlier. He set the box down on his dining table, then started to take his clothes off. He stripped his jacket and gloves, sat down to take his boots off…

But didn’t.

He looked at the box as it sat on the table, its three locked hinges sitting firmly latched. He had a flash of remembering the test padlocks he was practicing on, placed atop a garbage can outside of The Dawnrazor. As he started to sweat again, Henry picked up his coat and rummaged in one of the pockets, fingers finding slivers of metal. He withdrew the lockpicks and his gullet sank back down to its normal place behind his caveman ribs. 

He set the wrench and pick aside on the table, and an electric buzz swirled inside his guts, worse than any overindulgence anxiety he’d ever had. He reached and touched the lockpick, and his anxiety faded. He let go again, and within seconds, he felt sick again. He pulled his phone out and texted Steven.

[Sorry I was weird. I’m not feeling well.]

[Rats. Was it my vagina?]

[You joke about everything.]

[I’d be dead if I didn’t. Losing your job is tough. Sorry you have to deal with that kind of thing.]

[I don’t really care, though, that’s the thing.] Henry typed with one hand, while the other held the lockpick. He typed, [It’s this stupid box], but then deleted it. [I guess it was a crappy job.]

He tossed his phone aside and started fiddling with the lockpicks again, working on one of the locking hinges. In the back of his mind, Henry had long realized that he could simply pry the hinges out of the wood or otherwise mangle the box to get at its contents, but opening it appropriately was simply imperative.

Henry sat for several minutes, calmly manipulating the wrench and pick while internally he burnt with determination. His phone buzzed several times, and he ignored every one. 

With no warning, the lock clicked. Henry sat back and felt the butterflies of euphoria well up inside of his torso. His nipples hardened, his cock ached inside of his leather jeans, and he spun the box to work on the other two hinge locks. They let loose in just minutes. 

Henry texted Steven. [I opened it.]

[Good boy! Now you’re ready for a life of illustrious thievery, you rotten scoundrel, you.]

Henry lifted the lid off the box and exposed its contents. Both the top and bottom were lined with red velvet. The deeper bottom portion had several indentations with various items gently strapped in with fine leather straps. A large, ornate hunting knife whose handle was carved out of some type of bone with the same type of designs that covered the box. A corked glass vial full of a blood-like red liquid. A scrap of furred pelt that looked canine. The lid of the box contained a pamphlet secured by picture frame corners. The writing was indecipherable, scripted in luxurious calligraphy but in a language that Henry couldn’t recognize. It was also illustrated by pen and ink drawings which showed what to do with the contents of the box. Henry couldn’t believe it and pulled his phone out to snap a picture and send it to Steven.

[What on earth is all of that?] Steven immediately sent a second followup. [I bet it’s one of those things you can buy on the internet that’s like a fake collection of monster hunting gear!]

Henry flipped through the pamphlet and its inscrutable language several times. The illustrations clearly showed the knife carving a pattern into a man’s nude torso, applying the blood to the cut flesh, and then applying the scrap of wolf pelt atop it. The result was a beast that could best be described as a werewolf. [Yeah, that’s gotta be it], Henry replied, and then set his phone down.

Simultaneously chilled and euphorically excited, he paced around his apartment. Steven sounds like he’s right but he’s not. This isn’t fake. Henry did not generally believe in supernatural, preternatural, or religious things. Unlocking the box had unlocked something inside of him, though, and now he felt truth like a headrush but without any drugs at all. The only things in the world were Henry, and the box. 

He bolted up out of the chair and struggled to get out of his undershirt, wrestled with it, then madly tore the fabric out of crazed frustration. He picked up the box and went into the bathroom, pouring sweat despite the shirtless chill. He slid the knife out of its leather sheath, propped the pamphlet up against the mirror, and then started to draw the tip against his skin, scraping and cutting. It burned, first from the actual injury, and then from the salty sweat as it stung the bleeding flesh.

Partway through the first part of the design, Henry realized his phone was buzzing in the other room, either an actual phone call or messages. He ignored it, as he had also realized that he was trying to emulate a design on his body with a knife while looking in the mirror. The more he thought about what he was doing, the less confident he felt in actually doing it. If he let his mind wander, or at least be distracted by the physical sensations of harming himself, he felt the design just flow from the knife.

Henry’s phone continued to buzz. Definitely just text messages. Probably from Steven. Probably reminding him that he left his lockpicks on top of a trash can. He thought about what happened outside of the dumpy little leather bar, lockpicks clearly left inside and brought out by Steven and set upon the can, and then about how he opened up the box at home just fine without ever having picked them up again. How curious. Meanwhile, blood drizzled down his chest. The pattern was unrecognizable, nothing as simple as a pentagram or a wolf’s head, but more of a complex glyph from an unknown language. 

As soon as he finished it, he dropped the knife in the bathroom sink and stared. Wild-eyed, much more pale than usual, streaked with blood, red pattern welted into his barreled chest. WHAT ARE YOU FUCKING DOING? rang in his head, but he just ignored it completely. He picked up the vial and fussed with the pamphlet. Apply contents to knife, apply knife tip to one specific point of the pattern. He opened the vial and the smell of blood struck him as he poured some onto the knife. He then held it to his chest and watched it run down the metal towards the tip. As soon as it touched the intersection point, the pattern wicked it up from the knife with a cold prickle to his senses. Unable to read the instructions on the pamphlet and going just by the picture, he poured the rest onto the knife, only to watch it again get sucked away by the pattern he’d freshly carved into his skin.

Henry reached for the third part of the inscrutable ritual, the scrap of wolf pelt, but faltered. The nagging voice in his head screaming YOU ARE GOING TO KILL YOURSELF was not what stopped him. A painful chill was, and not the chill of fear, but of a draft. He stormed out into the main room and swiped up his jacket, slung it over his shoulders, and took a peek at his phone. Numerous text messages, all from Steven, all the same unconcerned sarcastic prattle that usually spilled from his mouth. He left his phone where it lay and returned to the bathroom.

The leather motorcycle jacket really improved his look. Half-naked and bleeding from self-inflicted knife slices, he had looked like someone on their way out of a horror movie or on the way into a psychiatric hospital. The jacket made him look like a badass someone on their way out or in. He picked up the pamphlet and looked at the second to last picture. Apply wolf pelt to chest, on the same spot as the knife. 

He picked up the scrap of pelt, neatly but imperfectly cut into a rectangle of fur and skin. Like the knife, vial, and box (but not the contents of the vial), it looked quite old but otherwise intact. He turned it over several times, then pasted it onto the appropriate spot skin-down with a slap of his palm. The impact stung and burned, but the pelt scrap stayed in place. Henry chuffed and flexed his chest, cuts stinging, and a vague tight sticking sensation from the wolf pelt. It still stayed in place. How about that. He plucked at one corner of it, and it didn’t come up immediately. He tried again and tugged harder, hard enough to hurt. It wouldn’t come up because there was nothing to come up; the edge between dusty old wolf skin and bleeding alive human skin was simply not there. Red marks started to streak from the bleeding glyph like a case of blood poisoning, and Henry grew increasingly cold. 

Not just cold, but sick. As sick as the worst of a bout of flu, but all at once. His eyes burned, his sinuses stabbed, his mouth ran dry and stung. Worst, he was instantly nauseated, scarcely able to turn towards the toilet as he projectile vomited. Red and black, blood and something tarry, mixed with bile. The mere sight of it made him vomit again, this time followed with blinding pain. What came up was far worse, and he couldn’t believe the sight of it. 

The pain continued to increase, skin burning and feeling like it was splitting all over his body, bones aching. He tore at his clothing, toppled to the side onto the floor, and writhed about. He tried to crawl into the main room to grab his phone and call 911, but he made it only a few feet before another bout of vomiting shook him. He passed out from the pain and only occasionally resurfaced into it for the next several hours.