Life With A Werewolf

Coda Part 2 - Friendly Declarations of War

         Some people don't hesitate to give you the right impression. From the way they talk, the way they move, how they take their sunglasses off, even to the pretentious vehicle they're driven around in, they do everything they can to make sure you hate them. Verner Behring's replacement certainly did just that.
         We did dislike him before he even spoke to us, but he really did give us a lot of reasons to hate him. It was in the evening when the car rolled to a stop in the middle of the street. It stopped in front of our house, blocking traffic that could come from both ways when it did stop. As if he owned the entire road and the county that the road rested in. By the time his driver got out and walked around the vehicle to let out his passenger, me and Crash were standing on our front porch watching him.
         The SUV stood out sharply in a community like ours. It was of European make, a luxury brand that I didn't immediately recognize. Something with a stylized animal in the logo and at least six zeros in the price. Six shades of purple was in the paint job, and also deep burgundy red that I'm certain was chosen cause it reminded him of blood. It was the type of paint job where all the colors had been flaked and faded into each other, so it appeared different depending on the angle you viewed it from. The driver was wearing an actual chauffeurs hat. You don't see too many of those in the Midwest, especially in small towns.
         The man raced to the rear door and pulled it open. The door was what they called a suicide door and opened opposite of the direction of the front. Then he stepped out. The driver took his sunglasses, and quickly closed the door after the man, then raced to sit back in the car, almost as if he knew the person walking up to us didn't wish to see him. I swear he was moving as if his life depended upon it. And from the way the man who approached the house acted, it may very well have.
         He was carrying a large picnic basket, one that set Crash's nerves on edge. I looked up to Crash. "Don't tell me to be nice."
         Crash growled, then patted me on the shoulder. A quiet signal that I didn't have to be. Not this time.
         His buttoned down coat wouldn't have looked out of place in a palace. The man was wearing a blood red ascot. It somehow made him look more pretentious and dangerous all at the same time. I could see from his shoes that each one was worth a thousand dollars or more. It wouldn't have surprised me in the slightest if he had been the type of person who didn't wash underwear, but wore them once and tossed them away afterwards.
         When he approached, he began to speak with a thick French accent. The curl in his lip said he hated everything about where he was and what he was looking at. It kind of made me proud in a strange way. Cause if my very existence can piss off the likes of him, then I'm doing something right.
         "I suppose I'm talking to the gentlemen of the house, in a manner of speaking," he said.
         "I own the house," Crash said.
         "Ah, yes, well not anymore. I am Alexandre Heroux, and I am replacing your kind. I've heard of you, and of your 'friend'. To ensure a smooth transition to our power, we now own the bank that holds your mortgage. You have exactly thirty days to offer resignation to your position and to vacate the premises."
                   Crash growled and was about to step down. He was preparing to shift anyway, and had already grown a part of a fur coat before I stepped in front of him. "You asking us for a picnic, cause I didn't get a chance to pick up the fancy wine," I said.
         He turned his head and snorted in disgust. "Yes, Jason Forte. The soldier. Everyone's favorite drinking buddy. I've heard of you, and your vulgarity."
         "Buddy," I smiled at him and threw my arms out as wide and welcoming as possible. "You have me at a disadvantage. You seem to believe that we were prepared to give a fuck. But you see, we gave our last one out this morning. We're fresh out of fucks to give right now." I snarled and pulled my pistol as quick as I could. He raised his eyes in surprise. I then pointed at the basket with the barrel. "Open it. Slowly."
         He gave me a growl, that, a few years ago would have taken me aback. "I see they got your reputation for vulgarity and stupidity accurate. Neither of you understand your betters. It's okay, I don't hold it against you. You are American, after all." With that, he lifted the lid of the basket.
         When someone dies, their muscles relax. All of them. It can be very difficult for loved ones to even identify their own children in such circumstances. That's part of the reason police departments tend to depend on things like DNA and dental records to identify the deceased, and not family members or loved ones. Still, I recognized the werewolf's head when I saw it.
         "Huh. Guillotined." It was all I could think to say.
         "Yes," he said. "He went out like the soldier he was. His bloodline still retains it's honor. He dishonored you in some small capacity of his position. This head is an apology for that."
         It was my turn to growl. Before I could say anything, Crash jumped in.
         "Friend, you misunderstand us. Your pet is going to shit on the curb, and I know you're not the kind of person to pick it up. So, I suggest you go." There was a glare in Crash's eye. One I recognized. There was going to be a fight soon if the idiot didn't leave. I wasn't certain I didn't want it.
         The interloper just took a deep breath, looking like a teacher who was dealing with a petulant child. "This is a peace offering in the hopes of a smooth transition of power. You do not want to go to war with us, mongrel. You had your fun, but the treaty has been broken. Pack up your things. Leave. You should start tonight. I will have three werewolves doing your job for you by sundown in this backwater inbred county."
         I began to laugh. He glared at me as if wondering what was so funny. "I know European royalty isn't trying to call us inbred. Aren't you the ones with the motto 'the closer the kin, the deeper in?' What was it you wanted to do, ensure that the blood line stayed pure, so you made sure the family tree didn't fork? I mean, I understand, after all, who better to love you than someone you knew your entire life, like your sister? What, are you pissed off that your mother/aunt/cousin isn't putting out tonight? I bet you're having an entire family reunion here all by yourself. Glad you brought your pet, you'll need someone to drive everybody..."
         He tried to hit me. He got as far as halfway before Crash intercepted him and struck him in the chest hard enough to make him stumble back two steps. It was within the span of a blink of an eye.
         He snarled, his eyes glowing as if ready to shift into his other form. "It is war then. I accept your challenge and will happily accept your surrender."
         He pointed at me. "And none of your pets gets a stay of execution this time. Any human or low creature associated with you mongrels is official combatants."
         He stormed off, leaving the basket with the werewolf's head in it in the grass. The driver raced to open the door for him, but was backhanded hard enough to knock him into the street. He climbed to his feet and opened the door all the same, keeping his eyes down at the ground. When he got settled inside, the door was slammed and the SUV sped off.
         I looked up at Crash after he left. "Was it something I said?"
         Crash growled. "No, he wants the war. Smug bastard thought he could scare you."
         "He's not too bright, is he," I said. I picked up the basket.
         "What are you going to do with that," Crash asked.
         "I'm going to bring it into work. His family will probably want the head with the body. Whatever family this poor guy had left," I said.
         "Be sure to tell boss that we got a war to prep for," Crash said.
         "I'll call the Rodriguez family," I said.
         "No," Crash snarled.
         I turned to him. "This is no time for grudges. We are going to need their help."
         "They're a last resort," Crash snarled. "Tell boss. He knows who to call."
         I prepared to head into work, wondering how much of Crash's instructions I should follow. If I ignored him and called them, they'd help, we could fend off the attack, whatever it was. Then he'd be pissed at me, probably mad enough to kick me out even. But, at least the county would be safe.
         Verner Behring had warned me that he would attack with a viciousness and intelligence I hadn't yet seen. I wished I had taken his warning far more seriously than I did. By the time I'd gotten to work, I was wishing I had already called the Rodriguez family in. By then it was far too late to make any phone calls at all.