They had met through work, both being entrepreneurs of a sort. He was a take charge kind of guy, she was a small town girl trying to make it. She looked to him for guidance and protection, like the father she had never had. He saw her as the daughter he avoided with the sole of his Timberland. Things were going great until tragedy struck, as it often does in this crazy game.
It was a business transaction like any other. Traveling salesman, nondescript; like so many other Johns before him. The same motel room. He wore a gray suit, blue slacks. She wore a tight black dress, clinging mid thigh to her black stockings.
There was a full moon that night, just barely peeking through ominous black clouds. A dreary Tuesday like so many others in the city. Nothing could be suspected on this November evening, certainly not in a situation like this. While she rattled off the prices for services provided, reciting as if from some imaginary sex menu, he simply smiled.
Removing his tie and untucking the oxford shirt from his cheap trousers, the man stood up. Throwing his blazer on an adjacent chair, he laughed. Unsure of how to react, she too let out a nervous squeal. Removing his undershirt, he revealed a deep scar on his chest that seemed to be pulsing with every beat of his heart. He arched his back and clenched his teeth, doubling over, shoulders almost touching as he retched and quivered.
She was barely out of her second knee high boot when he was on top of her, tearing through the cheap fabric of her black dress with his pointed incisors. "You ripped my dress you fucking prick" she shouted, slapping the side of her head with the palm of her hand.
He stopped. Craning his neck he peered into her pale blue eyes with his own. They glowed a sickly orange, his once plain face now bristling with what looked like dog's hair. His teeth jutted like a wolves, he snarled and took short breaths like some feral beast. Surely there was no price fit for this treatment.
She recoiled in horror, vaulting this man-beast off of her by lifting her legs over her head, a method she had certainly perfected. He was launched into the 27 inch black and white Magnavox that sat on the dresser. She pulled herself up, using the bed that had bought her Prada bag as support. grimacing at the tear in her favorite dress, she looked for the attacker, bringing the stiletto out of her bag slowly.
He was no longer there. The splinters of a dresser, the crumpled carcass of a television, and a bible were all that occupied that floor now. She threw her back to the wall, her breathing labored. Figuring he must have ran from the room in a fit of shame, she looked to the heavens and let out a sigh.
Checking his watch, two hours had gone by. He had not heard from his top money maker and had begun to worry. He knocked on the door of the usual room. No answer. He pressed his ear to the door, his diamond stud making a slight rap against the imitation wood. No sound. He kicked in the door, sending it flying off the hinges. The lights were off, but from the moonlight flooding the room, he could see the bed had no occupants. The shower was running, cautiously he went for the door of the bathroom.
He could feel the dampness a foot from the door through his gator skin boots. With his large, ring laden hand, he turned the knob. He burst in, and to his horror found the remains of his favorite ho, still being gnawed on by this wolf creature. He turned to leave but stumbled on a piece of shattered furniture. He felt the burn of fangs in the back of his neck as his vision of the parking lot went black.