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Memoir of a Lycanthrope By Lykanos Wulfheart

They say I'm a bitch. That I bark orders. Some have even gone as far as claiming that I've clawed my way to the top. Well, they have no idea. It's funny how a little rouge can cover the stain of one's lips.

This may be my story, but I warn you, it's not pretty. Who am I you may ask? You've probably heard of me. Watched me on the big screen. I'm just your typical big-name actress with a dark secret.

Where to begin? I hate to be so cliche, but it all started with a boy. A childhood friend, really. We'd met in grade school, back in the mid-forties. Forty five or forty six I want to say. Either way, he was always more enamored with me than I with him, the poor dear. Still, we remained close, his house just down the road from my own. We'd play your typical childhood games, though he and I did tend to favor Bonnie and Clyde. We'd pretend to raid one of our homes, and then steal away into the nearby woods to look over our ill-gotten gains. Thinking back, I know why we loved it so much. The second World War was the big thing of the time and while Jake wanted to be a soldier, his parents forbade it. I think he liked the idea of being a thug. It was a way for him to strike back and play the fighter he wasn't allowed to be. For me, it was more about the role. I wanted to be an actress, so the make-believe helped spur me on. Playing the part of such a high energy woman, it was invigorating!

It was on one of these little forays that he exposed me to his family's legacy. The year was 1950 and I was going to be heading out for Hollywood in the next few months, right at the start of summer. As much as he hated to see me go, he knew he couldn't stop me. Taking on a career in the film industry was all I'd been talking about and he could sense my passion. Still, he didn't want to see me get hurt. As much as I hate cliches, we happened to be lying in a grassy clearing in the woods, flat backed and looking up at the clouds when he said something like, "If you could be young forever, would you be?" Of course I said yes, telling him something about how it would be a boon to an actress to stay pretty for their entire career. He then told me he wanted to give me a going away present. I can still remember how he put it. "I don't want to see any harm come to you in the big city. You know I'd do anything for you, Bee, and if this is the only way I can protect you, then so be it." He then made me promise not to run, not to scream. Basically to just watch. It was an odd request, even for him, but he was my friend, so I agreed, unaware of the bombshell he was about to drop.

I sat there as he stripped down to his skivvies. Pretty sure I told him that I wasn't that kind of girl, but he just asked me to keep watching with an open mind. That's when things got weird. He started growing hair all over. Groans of pain, wails of anguish. I'd never really heard of werewolves until he explained it after his little show. He'd turned into a black furred beast as I watched. I'd like to say I wasn't scared, but that'd be a lie. I was terrified. Still, unlike most ladies, I stood my ground. He was my friend, after all, and I wasn't about to agitate something that looked like a skinny bear with a wolf face.

After he changed, he almost looked pathetic, like a giant puppy. I'm sure it was to put me at ease, and it worked. If I recall, I may have played with his ears and teased him about being adorable. Still, he changed back all the same, pleased that I didn't run screaming from his presence. He then told me all about lycanthropy. The secret of his family's immortality, the eternal beauty, and the power that came with it all. I was hooked. A little bite and I'd have his blessing. Neither of us wanted to ruin my body for the movies, so it took us a good hour to agree that my ankle was probably the best place for a nip, though he assured me he'd be gentle and it'd heal up as soon as the "curse" took hold. He was right, of course. I came home with a bit of a gash, but I was blemish free within a week and able to start turning beastly by a month's time.

Speaking of, I'd just like to put it on record that changing forms hurts like the dickens! It's almost as if your whole body is getting torn apart and glued back together. The teeth and claws are the easy part. It's the ribs, spine, and, subsequently, the tail that cause most of your pain. Don't get me wrong, the rush is unbelievably euphoric, but when that fluffy thing shoots out, you can feel all your nerves getting dragged along with it.

And now, back to the story. I left my hometown for the promise of opportunity. Hollywood. Back then, I was a bright eyed novice and, I hate to admit, completely clueless as to how the world really worked. I'd followed the advice of my tutor, finding low budget productions looking for a pretty face. There were a few that seemed promising, though they ultimately fell through. I did hear of a couple stag films looking for floozies, but I wasn't about to resort to such extremes. I did finally catch a break, and that's where my tale gets interesting.

I walked on the set for a low budget production about a suspense romance and that's where I met my first potential director. He was a complete scoundrel and I'm glad I ripped out his slimy, pathetic throat. Our relationship was complicated on account of his hiring methods. I should probably give a little bit of a description before I get much further. Charles Huntington was an up and coming director that had a reputation for crazy good work, but, at the same time, a pension for royally shafting his female leads. I was no different. After my audition, he sent his assistant off on some errand and took me to the side. I still remember his raunchy voice as he whispered, "I like ya, toots, but you're just not star quality. The best ya could hope for is maybe an extra on some Podunk production. Tell ya what. I'm feeling generous. If ya fill my needs, I may be inclined to find ya a better role than what ya deserve."

Least to say, this infuriated me. He was a short, stocky, half bald pig that was looking for sex in exchange for favor. Absolute scum. Still, I wanted the part, need it really. It would have been the perfect stepping stone to a full-fledged career. I told him that I'd need a few minutes to think it over, so he swatted my heinie and said to hurry up or he'd give the part to someone else. Well, while I debated his offer, the assistant director and I had a nice chat. Seems he loved my audition, and if it were up to him, he said I'd be his first choice. He also mentioned Charles' appetites and that this wasn't the first nor the last time he'd trade flesh for a leg up. As much as it sickened me, I returned to Mr. Huntington and accepted his terms. We'd decided to meet in an alley by his flat where he'd then take me to some cheap motel for my "second audition" as he put it.

I can still see the horrified look on his greasy face and it still brings me pleasure. I met him in the alley, all right. Met him with tooth and claw! I'd stripped behind a dumpster and waited for him to arrive, all furred up and ferocious. At that point I'd never killed anyone or anything. Maybe a bug or a fly, but that was all he really was, anyways. A pest that the world was better off without. As soon as he showed, I slunk out of hiding and rose to meet him, slow and purposeful. I wanted to make him feel fear. I felt it fitting. He'd made so many other women taste the terror of his horrendous proposition, and so I tasted him. It was almost instinct. I just went straight for his throat. It was so simple, so warm. I knew he was going to taste slimy and gross, but there was a coppery sweetness to his dying gasps that was just so invigorating. I didn't stop there. I let the anger of my beast play, shredding at his fancy clothes and ripping his foul corpse apart. The newspapers called it an unfortunate dog attack. I called it justice. It cost me a nice pair of slacks and a low priced gown, but it was worth it. I should note that I learned not to wear nice things on the hunt. After you turn back, you're still covered in blood and it ruins pretty much everything you put back on.

The next day, I went back to the set as if nothing had happened. They were in a bit of a panic from the loss of the lead director, but Tony, the kind assistant that I'd talked to the day before, was taking charge and getting everything settled. He kept his word, giving me the lead role and starting off my career. He was definitely one of the kindest men I've had the pleasure of working with. The movie may not have been as big a success as everyone would have liked, but it was popular enough to open doors for me as a professional actress. I had a few offers after that project and eagerly took what I could get, hoping to fortify my filmography.

It didn't take long for me to make a name for myself. I wasn't picky at first which helped me carve out a niche in action, adventure, and romance. Sometimes I was the damsel in distress, other times I was the heroine. The latter didn't start to happen until later in my career, a while after the reintroduction of the Equal Rights movement. I didn't take as active a stand as I'd have liked, my career and my condition both heavy considerations at the time. Still, as women became empowered, so too was our presence felt on film. My roles were less that of the love-struck lass and more the leading force. The science fiction genre also helped boost my career. Between my beauty and primal ferocity, I was perfect for the fantasy and horror that spilled forth. I even starred in a werewolf film once, but not as the lycanthrope. It was a strange experience. Hollywood had it all wrong, thank goodness. It would be awful to aid in the slaughter of one's own species, but it was almost just as bad coming face to face with a faux creature each day on set. Knowing how wrong they were hurt almost as much as the shift. Least to say, I only did one werewolf movie and it was more than enough for me. Aliens, vampires, slashers, any of those things I'll do, but no more werewolves. Don't get me wrong. I don't hate what I am. On the contrary. I love it so much that it makes me sick to see how the media has tainted it.

Speaking of werewolves in media, I know for a fact I wasn't the only one in Hollywood. Aside from the almost purposeful redirection of facts, I'd met a few in various other jobs. That brings me to John. Though I know he's taken on another job and a new identity, I still won't reveal his last name. It's not my place to do so. On that note, John was my personal driver, a fellow lycanthrope who knew how to stay hidden in the hustle and bustle of the big city. I was a movie star at this point and my hunting was starting to suffer on account of the constant hounding by the paparazzi. I tried to keep my affairs private, but those reporters were relentless. Fortunately, I'd learned of John through some mutual contacts and he helped get my personal life back on track.

If you're squeamish, I'd stop reading here. I'm about to get into some bloody habits that you may not want to know about. I'd like to also preface this part by saying that this is not a confession or an admittance of guilt. It's simply the facts. I enjoyed killing. It was a bit of a guilty pleasure, a hobby if you will. I stuck mostly to the filth of society, but on occasion did take out a competing actress, a hostile crew worker, and a couple poor natured interns. For the most part, though, I took down thugs. John was not only my driver, but also my alibi. He'd drive me out to the shadier parts of town. We mostly visited back alleys and seedy motels, places with few cops and sinister sorts. Sometimes I'd leave my clothes in the car. Other times, I'd wear something to entice the criminals to cop a feel. I don't even know how many I've killed, but it went anywhere from unfaithful spouses to rapists, mafia goons and robbers. Anyone willing to hurt a woman physically or emotionally felt my wrath. I took pleasure in ending them. Let them turn me around, push me down. I'd let them think they were in control. The look on their faces when I took that illusion away from them. It was almost as delicious as the flesh they paid for those crimes.

I'd like to point out that in all of my little escapades, I've been stabbed a few times, but only shot twice. Once was through the thigh by a gangster. The other was across my back. The bullet cut into the meat of my right shoulder and grazed my spine. That was by a potential rapist trying to save his dead friend. Both times I took a bullet, the gunman paid in slow and agonizing torment.

When I was done playing, John would pick me up. He kept fresh clothes and disposable towels in the trunk, so I could clean up and get in like nothing had happened. A little makeup to hide the stains of blood and I'd be good to go. We worked well together but were never a thing, if that's what you're thinking. We were there to keep the other out of trouble, not much more. I don't think we ever really hunted together, come to think of it. He'd clean up my mess, but never made much of his own. Still, he was a great friend until he had to leave the city. Such is the life of a killer. Always looking over your shoulder.

After he left, it was a little harder to go out and find prey, though larger stars had started taking the limelight. You'd think that would upset me, but it really didn't. It took away the attention of the off-screen cameras and gave me back a little freedom to roam. The newest threat at this point was my age. I'd been on the big screens for over two decades with no sign of aging, no spots, no blemishes, nothing to show I was anything over thirty. This was my true problem. I started slowing down my career, forced to get creative with my makeup. With a gentle application of eye liner and false shadowing, I was able to make myself seem more mature while still quite vibrant.

Another factor of the changing times, and part of why I'm writing this memoir, is that medical science and technology are starting to catch up with my kind. The days of random mauling is coming to a close. Autopsies are showing things they hadn't before. DNA evidence is starting to become a common occurrence, so much so that the movies have taken it from science fiction to police drama fact. On top of that, personal computers are starting to boom. I've heard that police stations are beginning the process of moving their paper logs onto these mechanical storage systems so that it will be easier to hunt criminals. Several of my fellow canids have made the switch to a new identity and advised I do the same. They say that our friends on the force will have an easy time what with so much of the data already getting lost in the transfer.

As much as I hate to admit it, I'm thinking it's the right move. After all, I can't hold onto acting much longer. It's already the eighties and times are changing. Who knew immortality would be such a burden? But still, I'll miss the hum of the cameras, the heat of the lights, and the comradery of my fellow performers. It's going to be a huge adjustment going from a woman of renown to one of obscurity. That's why I've written this. I want people to know who I was. Not the pretty face on the film, but the complex woman behind, with gritty secrets and dark desires. A monster hidden behind the maiden.

What's next for me, you might ask? I wish I could say. I'm still not sure, myself. I won't give you any specifics to hunt me down with, only obscurities. I would like to sing, though. Nothing professional. Not yet, at least. It would defeat the purpose of this whole thing. No, I'm thinking low key. With women growing more ambitious in business, maybe I should do the same. Maybe own a bar or something. I have the money. Or even one of those newfangled night clubs. Possibly a safe place for my gender. One where I can watch over and take out the occasional troublemaker with my own savage flair.

I think the story of my life has gone on long enough. I regret that I couldn't share all of the details, but a lady never reveals all of her secrets. Plus, a little mystery makes for a good movie. I just ask that you remember me as I was, a talented leading lady and a skilled performer. A friend to my fans and a beast of vengeance to my foes. Basically, remember me as the cut-throat bitch I am, always and forever.

Beatrice