Congratulations Werewolf Janitor!

As a lycanthropic American there are relatively few jobs you can hold down long term. Night janitor happens to be one. But recent cost cuts have resulted in dramatic slashes to operating budgets and benefits. You’ve had to buy your own supplies, and the three day mini-cations you take once a month around the time of the full moon have had to stop.

Tonight is going to represent the first moon you’ll spend in a very, very long time outside of your safehouse. We’re not sure if it’s actually even a full moon, we just needed a date that werewolf hunters wouldn’t be able to use to track you down to tell you about this, so this isn’t actually going to happen today. It’s going to happen in the future and today just represents it for you. Unlike all the other predictions we bring, which are tied to the day they’re posted, so as to minimize their usefulness for anyone.

Got it? Good.

So “tonight” you’ll be at your job, going about your rounds as usual when the spasms begin. They’ll start just as you finish clearing garbage from faculty offices, just in time for you to hurry down to the boiler room where you’ll be able to chain yourself to some sturdy pipes and, hopefully, ride out the whole evening without killing anyone.

But sure enough, Alfred, your mentally handicapped co-worker, will stop you in the hallway and talk your ear off about god only knows what. So, mind filled with panic, muscle spasms intensifying as your heart begins to contract and expand to its new size in what can only be described as a symphony of pain, you’ll focus at a point somewhere behind Alfred and mumble something at him just before the beast takes you.

That something will sound a little like “sorry,” but Alfred won’t even notice that you’ve spoken.

When you awake the next day you’ll be covered in viscera and gore, you assume from Alfred. Luckily the locked school doors will have kept you out of the general public, but your stomach and head will still be screaming, and memories of your kill will haunt you like specters, abstractions of the death you brought to that poor man.

You’ll use your cleaning supplies to get rid of all the evidence implicating and whatever bits of Alfred you can find, and then you’ll start mapping your flight from your current life. This will be the fifth time you’ve had to do that since your tragic vacation to central Alberta so many years ago, but it won’t be any easier. As you scratch jobs off of a list you wrote in pencil, you’ll think back to your days as a lawyer, and then the solution, so obvious this whole time, will hit you. You’ll stop packing, instead grabbing food and water for a road trip out to the spot in the woods, five hundred miles away in the middle of Indiana, where you buried the bits of precious from your previous life that were too important to destroy. You’ll need them to make your plan work.

Congratulations Werewolf Janitor!