The Artist Search Has Failed: The Peter is the Wolf Novel Project Begins

Well, off and on I've spent years trying to find an artist who fits the following criteria:

(1) Can produce at least one comic page per week;

(2) Draws in a manga-inspired art style

(3) Reaches a certain minimum level of art quality

(4) Works reasonably well with my scripting style

(5) Fits within a certain per-page budget that matches past Patreon support

And after having several artists ghost on me after initial interest, other artists not really get what I'm going for with the scripts, and others simply not be good enough at the comics format to be workable, I made one last stab in May and commissioned two eight-page scripts- one adult one featuring were-racoon-dog Cherry Li, and one gen-aud exploring the possibility of werewolf presidents in history. 

The gen-aud story is complete, but the artstyle doesn't really fit, and the use of the comics format needs work. 

The artist for the adult story hasn't responded to contacts three different ways in two months now. Even if I do eventually get that story, it's obvious the artist won't be able to meet a schedule.

So I'm calling an end to the artist search. Instead I'm going to redo Peter is the Wolf as a light novel series with occasional illustrations. Those, not being dependent on a schedule, I can be more flexible with. 

And I'll be writing it more or less live on Patreon. I'm committing to between five and eight updates per month on Patreon, each snippet posting Wednesdays, for Patreon supporters only. When a book is completed, it will be made available for order as a PDF or print version (with a Kickstarter for preorders). 

I intend to add material not in the comic, but more to the point, this way the story will actually get FINISHED. 

I'll also be commissioning illustrations from time to time for the future book; those will be made available for $10+ pledges if and when. The $10 folks also will get direct access to read the Google Docs file I'll be working from (which will get moved around every so often) so they don't have the hassle of paging through all the Patreon posts.

Anyway, here's the first few pages of Peter is the Wolf, draft 1.1ish, in novel form This will be the average length of the snippets you'd be funding- minimum length 1500 word, maximum about 4000. 

The first paid snippet will post next week (Tuesday midnight CDT to Wednesday noon CDT). This one's a freebie, to allow those of you who want to cancel your pledge to do so. I actually hope you stick around or add to your pledge, especially once we get to the *ahem* good bits.

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PETER IS THE WOLF

BOOK 1: THE FIRST TWENTY-FIVE HOURS

by Kris Overstreet

Chapter 1

Hi there. I’m Peter Stubbe, and I’m a werewolf.

No, really.

The name is traditional in my family, or so Mom told me once. I think she’s making it up, especially since we live in a place called Peterstown, so-

Oh, that wasn’t the part you had trouble with?

Well, it’s true. I am a werewolf. I grow a snout, fangs, tail, fur, the whole bit. So do my mom and dad. In fact, if you put all the different kinds of werebeast together, about one out of every thousand people is one. There’s a good chance you know one.

Also, I found out there was actually a guy named Peter Stubbe in Germany five hundred years ago who got prosecuted for cannibalism and pleaded not guilty by reason of being a werewolf. So yeah, the name thing still matters. I think Mom or Dad just decided to get my life as a cruel joke off to a running start.

Anyway, when you think about werewolves, you probably think of murderous creatures that change shape under a full moon, either gifted or cursed with the reason of men, the instincts of animals, and strength far surpassing either. A fusion of man and beast, immune to harm, towering over mere mortals…

… yeah, that’s so not me. Especially not the mindless cannibal parts.

There are a lot of seven or even eight foot tall werebeasts out there, but I’m not one of them. I’m a runt- a major disappointment to werewolf-kind, as my dad never fails to remind me when he bothers to talk to me at all. I can barely lift a car tire, let alone a car. My clothes are still just as baggy after I shift as before.

(Well, except for the crotch. That’s the one place I’m not a runt, and I don’t care what you’re thinking, it’s caused me more trouble than it’s worth. And it gets much worse in werewolf form, which is a big reason why I wear baggy clothes in the first place.)

It’s not all bad, though. My senses are just as good as any other werewolf’s, and my reflexes are actually better. I can’t fight, but I sure can dodge and run. I also have all the werewolf immunities you’ve heard of. Fire, silver, a few particular herbs, old age, and the teeth and claws of other weres- those are the only things that can kill me. Poisons and drugs barely do anything. Everything else short of decapitation will heal- and I speak from way too much experience there.

Anyway, yeah, that’s me. Peter Stubbe. Werewolf. Life’s chew toy.

That point was in late June the year I graduated high school. In a few weeks I was going to move into a college dorm on a baseball athletic scholarship, get away from the disappointed stares of my parents, and restart my whole life.

Oh, and a couple weeks before, my girlfriend and I celebrated high school graduation by doing the nasty on my dad’s couch. So yeah, I was feeling good about life for the first time, well, ever.

And that’s when the weirdoes in hazmat suits with the nets and tranquilizer darts showed up.

Again.

Peterstown was an in-between kind of place- too small to be a city, too large to be a town. It was far enough south that it had a summer, but far enough north that someone could wear a fur coat in summer and not keel over instantly of heat stroke. It was large enough to have a large-ish downtown district, but small enough that the interstate didn’t come close enough to count as a bypass. It was large enough to have a university with a Division I athletic department, but small enough that the name of the university included the word “State” and one cardinal direction.

More to the point, it was just large enough that the sound of squealing tires didn’t draw anybody’s attention. It was a busy Monday afternoon. The streets were full of traffic, and there were pedestrians here and there, so someone slapping on the brakes was only to be expected.

So nobody really looked at the figure on the skateboard that the van had just barely avoided hitting. They didn’t notice the fur-lined jacket, which made zero sense in late June. And most importantly, they didn’t notice the tail sticking out from the waist of his pants, the large fuzzy ears sticking up through his hair, or the gaping muzzle on his face, panting for breath as he kicked and kicked the skateboard to faster speeds.

Peter had just enough presence of mind, over the waves of panic, to reflect that everything would have been fine if he hadn’t gotten startled by that car backfiring. And if it hadn’t been the first day of full moon, that wouldn’t have been a problem. But it was, so it had been, and so his control had slipped and he’d gone fuzzy. And, of course, the instant he’d gone wolf in public, the hazmat people had shown up out of nowhere and begun chasing him, not giving him even a second to regain his focus.

Of course Peter had his skateboard with him. He always did. He’d gotten around town on his skateboard for more than half his life. He’d yanked it out the instant he dashed through the closing circle of net-wielding weirdos, and he’d just jumped on it when the van zoomed out of an alley and screeched to a halt just short of flattening him. Now he heard its roaring engine behind him, and he racked his brain to think of anything that could make his board go even faster.

There hadn’t been a van last time. The guys in the bunny suits, yeah, they’d tried to catch him before. He’d got away by the skin of this teeth, then. But this time they had wheels, and unlike his wheels, theirs had an engine. Peter looked back over his shoulder; yep, it was gaining.

When he looked forward again, there was an oncoming car right in front of him- a cherry red new-version Beetle.

There had been a time when Peter had wanted to be a professional skateboard superstar when he grew up, until he found out how few of them made any money at it. Still, the two years of practice paid off in a perfect ollie that launched him and the board up over the hood of the Beetle. The landing wasn’t quite perfect, and the underside of the board screeched across the car roof, ripping off the top layer of paint. Then the car was gone, and Peter kicked down, locking the skateboard wheels to the pavement, adjusted his balance, and skated on.

The driver of the Beetle reacted about as one might expect. The car’s brakes squealed, and the driver’s head poked out the car window for a glimpse at what he’d just barely missed. This meant, naturally, that he didn’t see the van coming at him until it used the Beetle as a pinball bumper (fortunately for the Beetle driver, sideswiping the passenger side). The Beetle went spinning to a halt in an empty parking lot, while the van roared on, barely slowing down.

Peter saw none of this. Grinding the Beetle had slowed him down a lot, and he was pumping hard to get back up to speed. To a certain extent gravity was his friend. The southeastern half of Peterstown was flat as a pancake, but the northern and western sides had some hills, and the street Peter was on ran south-southwest from the high school towards downtown, down-slope most of the way. Of course, only an idiot would ride a skateboard down the middle of a four-lane city street-

Hey! I didn’t have a choice! Like you could have done better!

- but Peter was a man out of options, so he kicked harder and leaned-

Something stabbed him in the right shoulder, deep and hard. He yelped, reached behind him, and grabbed something large and cylindrical, with a furry or feathery tail. He yanked it out and looked at it- a large dart with a clear, hollow shaft.

Then the world went swirly and wavy. Ooooh, he thought, horsey tranky. Lotsa horsey tranky. Not the first time he’d been drugged either. It would pass in about a minute. So long as he could keep his balance…

Then he looked forward down the hill into downtown, which all of a sudden looked a lot steeper and more uneven than he remembered it. And he noticed, really for the first time, just how much of the roofs of the multistory downtown buildings he could see from the top of that hill.

And at the bottom of the hill sat the single busiest traffic light in town, glowing red, A wave of oncoming traffic was coming up the left side of the road ahead of him; the right side was filled by vehicles stopped for the light. And, thanks to the tranq dart, all of it rippled and shook like bad chop on the lakes.

Peter had just enough time to whimper before he felt the slope of the road drop out under him.

Yeah, quick side note here: that neighborhood’s called Deadman’s Hill. Not because of the hill- it’s really not that bad when you don’t have a gallon of ketamine or whatever burning through your system. There was a mass grave there two hundred years ago from some battle against Indians or something. There’s no cemetery there now- just some shops and houses and stuff. But there are a hell of a lot of wrecks at the bottom where downtown begins…

The skateboard, and Peter, went down the hill at ten miles over the speed limit, followed closely by the van full of hazmat-suited men.

The oncoming traffic came up the hill, the lead cars already honking horns at him.

With no other thought in his mind than oh crap oh crap oh crap, Peter covered his head in his arms and tried to make himself as small as possible.

Horns honked.

Tires squealed.

Wind rushed by one side of Peter, then the other, then both.

Peter shifted his weight back and forth, sending the speeding skateboard through a series of S-curves that threaded it, and him, through a rapidly closing gauntlet of skidding, swerving automobiles.

A truck horn blared, directly ahead. A shadow loomed in front of him.

Peter leaned backwards hard, and his tail brushed along the side of an old Buick sedan.

OH CRAP!!

There was the briefest feeling of hot diesel exhaust on his face.

Then the air opened up around Peter, and the screeching of tires stopped, replaced by a symphony of car horns.

Steadying himself on the still-speeding skateboard, Peter took a moment to pat himself down. Nothing broken. Nothing injured. Nothing even torn.

A quick look behind him revealed a sea of cars and trucks, none actually wrecked, but all in a hopeless tangle that would take the township sheriff’s department at least an hour to undo. At the very back end of it was the white van, spun sideways, the words AMINAL CONTROL receding at about thirty miles per hour.

Relief, and then triumph, surged through Peter. With a laugh he put his hands along his head, spread his fingers, and stuck out his tongue at the hazmat goons. “NYAAAH! YOU LOSE!” he shouted over the horns. “You can’t get me! I’m untouchable. I am IIIIINVIIINCIBLE!”

He turned back around just as the street left downtown and forked. He ran facefirst, and then crotchfirst, into the pole holding up the road-divides-here sign.

The skateboard rattled along the pavement without him for another four blocks before hitting a curb and beaching itself.

Yeah. Really not proud of that moment.

And by the way, I can confirm, rapid healing aside, taking a shot to the wolf nards still hurts a LOT…