Cripple Wolf
Some people say that writing is a solitary and lonely profession. Those people are full of shit.
Special shout outs to:
Rose O’Keefe, Carlton Mellick III, Boing Boing, Cameron Pierce, Chrissy Horchheimer, Samuel, Deats, Topless Robot, Whitney Streed, Rachel E. Graves, Troy Chambers, Jeremy Robert Johnson, Alan M. Clark, Wizard Magazine (R.I.P.), The World Horror Convention, John Skipp, Ryan Harding, Mykle Hansen, Brian Keene, Norwescon, Batman, Powell’s Books, Wil Weaton, Edward Lee, Kevin Shamel, Andrew Goldfarb, Nate Southard, Wrath James White, Lloyd Kaufman, James Beach, Garrett Cook, PFFR, Bryan Smith, Kevin L. Donihe, Happy Cat, Dave Brockie, RadCon, everyone that makes the yearly trek out to BizarroCon, to the awesome bartenders at Lucky Lab, Ground Kontrol, Bailey’s Tap Room, and The Lovecraft Bar, and to anyone else my drug-addled mind is forgetting.
Fuck off to:
You know who you are.
Books by Jeff Burk
Shatnerquake
Super Giant Monster Time!
Cripple Wolf (stories)
Pothead
Homobomb
The Slaughterhouse Thrills
Shatnerquest
Lord of the LARPers
Dinosaurs Attack
Oh Shit! We’s Gonna Cut You!
Hipster Hunter
Pirate Cat
Shatnerpocalypse
Cripple Wolf
Frosty and the Full Monty
Cook For Your Life
House of Cats
Adrift with Space Badgers
Punk Rock Nursing Home
Just Another Day in the Park
About the Stories
He didn’t really want to kill the baby but he did it anyway.
He snatched the infant out of its mother’s arms and sunk his teeth into the baby’s soft chest. It squealed like a stuck piglet.
The mother’s screams pierced his ears. He bitch-slapped her with his hairy paw but she kept screaming, staring at her mutilated baby dangling from his other claw. He swiped at her again and, at that exact same moment, the plane hit a rough patch of turbulence. His claw sliced cleanly through her neck and the rocking of the cabin sent the head bounding into the overhead storage compartment and straight off into the middle of a row of passengers.
Panic exploded in the crowd.
He snorted, his senses aroused by the blood, sweat, and fear in the recycled air. The infant convulsed in his claws. He lapped its blood with his wide flat tongue and then tossed the little pork chop aside.
He spun and wheeled toward his next victim.
“Now boarding Fetish Flights #33 to Portland, Oregon, United States.”
The nurse pushed Benjamin Kurtz in his wheelchair to the end of the line. Well, she wasn’t really a nurse. Her plastic form-fitting uniform and thigh high boots gave that away. But Benjamin had paid her good money to take care of his every need during his stay in Tokyo, and getting to the airport was one of his needs. He shifted in his chair, wishing he had to take a shit so she could clean him off one more time before he left.
Benjamin served four tours of duty in Vietnam. On the first, a stray piece of shrapnel ricocheted off his helmet. Nothing but a miracle could explain how he had sustained no physical damage. But after that, his memory was never the same.
On his fourth tour, while on patrol, he was attacked by a wolf. The attack put him in the chair and there was something else important but he didn’t remember. He spent a while in the infirmary, dead from the waist down, and that’s where he developed his diaper fetish. Having those young nurses, still fresh from medical school, wipe the shit from his ass excited him in ways he never before dreamed.
When he was returned to the States, Uncle Sam no longer having use for a crippled soldier, he found out he had a wife. He had just plain forgotten. She had moved on with her life and remarried and, after a few months, he had completely forgotten about her again.
The diaper fetish stayed.
Disability took good care of him and he saved up so, once a year, he could take a vacation to Japan. In the States he occasionally got lucky with a cute pre-med, but most of his nurses were old, fat, hags. In Tokyo, there were establishments that catered to his specific needs.
That’s where he met . . . well, he didn’t remember her name anymore. Her name didn’t matter, what mattered was how she filled out that uniform.
Benjamin eyed the other passengers waiting in line. Near the front was a guy with a bright blond bihawk chatting up a young girl with purple hair. Behind them were two more punks talking amongst themselves. There was a guy who looked like a body-builder, a Japanese Elvis, hippies, and even two fools dressed like clowns.
The normal clientele for Fetish Flights.
The line moved forward and Benjamin took notice of the man directly in front of him. He was wearing a long brown trench coat that was at least two-sizes too large and an oversized brown fedora pulled down to hide his head. In the crack between his coat and hat, it looked like his neck was covered in purple spandex. When he stepped forward, in-between his jacket and boots, Benjamin could see the man was wearing purple tights. He looks like a real pervert.
Soon, Benjamin was at the front of the line. The ticket taker was a knock-out blonde wearing a fetish outfit made of strips of black leather connected by metal rings.
“Welcome to Fetish Flights,” she said taking his ticket, “enjoy your flight.”
“I’m sure I will,” he said, staring at her nipples poking through the leather. “But I do need some . . . special assistance.”
That’s what made Fetish Flights, Fetish Flights. Their staff catered to anyone’s desire; the men were Adonises, the women Aphrodites. All were dressed in the finest, and most revealing, fashion of the discerning fetishist.
She glanced down at his ticket. “Of course. We’ll have a stewardess attend to you momentarily.”
She pushed a button at her station and an even bustier brunette wearing even less came up to Benjamin. His nurse left and the brunette pushed him down the ramp onto the plane. She wheeled him to his handicap seat, which was right next to the boarding door. Next to him was a young, wholesome looking woman holding a very small baby. He grimaced at her. Sometimes people accidentally ended up on Fetish Flights due to their extremely discounted fares.
“Don’t worry, he’s a heavy sleeper,” she said when she noticed Benjamin looking at the child. “He won’t be one of those screamers on the plane.”
She rocked the baby and said, “It’s a full moon tonight. I hope we can see it from the air, it should be beautiful.”
Benjamin nodded. A full moon. That seemed important. But he couldn’t remember why.
Abdul Omar, otherwise known as Lawrence Talbot on his passport, stared at himself in the mirror of the tiny airplane bathroom. Some days he found it hard to believe it was himself staring back. His hair was two inches long and rather stylishly spiked. He rubbed his smooth chin and remembered a time when there was a bushy beard there. He smirked at himself. With his The Clash t-shirt and blue jeans, he looked just like one of them.
All a part of deep cover.
He pushed a button on his shoulder, so subtle and hidden that only he knew its location, and his forearms popped open revealing two hollowed out compartments perfect for smuggling.
From his left arm he removed a switchblade. He snapped open the weapon admiring its six inch blade. He snapped it shut and slid it into his front pocket.
Abdul took a taser out of his right arm and stuck it into his other pocket.
He snapped shut the compartments and pushed another hidden button on his hip. He lifted his shirt and opened the chamber in his chest. Inside was twelve pounds of C-4 hooked up to a small control panel. He reached in and activated the panel. He knew that when the
time came, the explosives would add destructive potential. At the very least, if anyone tried to stop them, he and Mohammad (who was in the next bathroom going through the same preparation) could just take down the whole plane.
Abdul shut his chest and pulled his shirt back down. He smoothed out the picture of Paul Simonon smashing a bass guitar on his shirt and took one last look in the mirror. The clothing, even the bands and logos on them, had been a part of his cover story. To make his story viable he had to immerse himself in this hedonistic culture. He had to watch the TV shows, read the books, and listen to the music. Surprisingly, he found himself enjoying The Clash. The punk group was just randomly selected for him, but the heretic white men actually had some lyrics to which he could relate.
He left the bathroom and walked down the plane’s narrow aisles. He stole a quick glance at Mohammad, who was already seated and flipping through an issue of Wizard Magazine. As he sat down, he picked back up the cheap paperback he had been reading, The Conqueror Worms by Brian Keene. Just some piece of horror dreck and another part of his assigned cover. He read while softly singing under his breath.
“Death or glory. Becomes just another story.”
Abdul awakened to the roar of over three hundred passengers.
Great Allah, how long was I asleep? People were standing and screaming and crying. Abdul thought they must already be at the assigned point and Mohammad was making his move.
He sprung to his feet and flipped out his switchblade.
“Everyone! Stay calm and no one will be hurt!”
His voice was not even audible over the chaos in the cabin. He realized that no one was even looking at him. They were all looking at something behind him. Abdul turned around and stared.
A hairy beast was in front of him. Its large paws and arms were wrapped around a man wearing a black latex catsuit while its snout was buried deep in the man’s neck. The animal and man were soaked in blood.
The animal’s eyes shot up and locked with Abdul’s. The thing tossed aside the latex clad corpse and howled like a wolf, its snout dipping down and then straight up in the air. Its thick brown fur was shaggy and matted with gore.
Abdul was frozen. Apart from the fact that he was looking at a monster, there was something else terribly wrong with it. The beast, who was obviously male, was sitting down in the aisle like a human in a chair. Then what he was seeing clicked.
It’s in a wheelchair . . .
The creature rolled forward, using its hirsute paws to gain speed. Abdul leapt to the side, throwing himself over vacated seats. He wasn’t quick enough. As he jumped, a large paw swiped at him in midair and dug a hole in his stomach just below his hidden chamber. The claw caught hold of his intestines and the creature continued to wheel down the aisle.
Abdul convulsed in shock and couldn’t move. He watched his insides unravel and get pulled across the plane. He could just barely turn his head to see the monster run down an old woman in a ball gag and corset. Then his vision went black and white and he could smell roses. Then nothing.
Kiichi was nodding his head to the fast beat of the Stance Punks songs playing on his headphones when Kana started to shake him. Kiichi tore off the ear pieces.
“Hey—” he stopped when he heard the screams. Kana stared at him with wide-eyed fear through her hot-pink bangs. Kiichi turned to Yousei, who was already on his feet scanning the cabin.
Kiichi, Kana and Yousei all played in the same punk band, Mouthful of Ants. After three years of playing together, their career took off with their fourth album, Land of the Rising Scum. At the record release show they revealed their new live gimmick. Before they went on stage, they all drank a homemade cocktail of fake blood and syrup of ipecac. For the first five songs of their set, all the members of Mouthful of Ants projectile vomited fake blood across the stage, crowd, and each other. That caught the attention of Epitaph Records and then the world. Which placed them onboard the double-deck, wide-body Airbus A380 flying from Tokyo, Japan to Portland, Oregon, U-S-A!
They had dreamed of this moment for years, their first world tour. All that stood between them and their first show on American soil was a thirteen hour and forty-seven minute flight. Well, that and whatever was scaring everyone so much. Kiichi didn’t want to die in a plane crash—not before they played New York City.
He stood up to try and see what was happening. It seemed everyone in the passenger area was standing and yelling. The plane held three hundred and twenty-five people in this cabin alone. Kiichi strained his neck but couldn’t see what was causing the panic. The three punks were seated in the back of the plane, on the left, next to the windows. Whatever was causing the commotion was happening in the front, to the right.
The girl with the purple hair’s body flipped into the air, bounced off the ceiling, and crashed into the middle section of the passengers. People fled toward the back of the plane, climbing over seats and each other to get away from whatever was coming.
“Mega uncool,” said Yousei.
The beast tore through the people. It did not pick any specific targets, its claws slashing and slicing through flesh and plush seats alike. The fear-stench of its prey electrified the air. Sometimes it brought some juicy morsels to its mouth, but it wasn’t killing for food. It was killing for fun.
People tried to get away but there was just no place to go. A Japanese man dressed as Elvis tried climbing over one of the seats but the creature grabbed his feet and pulled him in close. With a single motion, the beast slashed into the man’s gut, sending blood and viscera spraying into the air.
A crusty old man had ignored the fleeing crowd and remained in his seat. His pants were down around his ankles and he was furiously whacking off. A spray of blood from the slaughtered Elvis hit his exposed penis and delivered just the lubricant he was hoping for.
The beast turned to the man and roared in his face, covering him with blood-speckled saliva. The man jerked faster.
The monster grabbed the man’s gore-coated cock with one paw and his balding head with the other and tore both off his body in one easy motion. The beast bit into the man’s severed face, cracking the skull, and pulled out a snoutful of brains. It threw the penis at a screaming woman and it bounced off her forehead.
“Filthy beast, pick on someone your own size,” came a voice from behind the creature.
The cripple wolf turned its hairy maw flinging mucus, slobber, and gore.
Standing in the aisle, between the monster and the rest of its intended victims, a man wearing a purple facemask and a purple spandex bodysuit struck a defiant pose, hands on his hips. On his chest was a shiny yellow “S.”
The people behind him cheered. Their savior was here. The one and only, Star Spangler!
The monster spun its wheelchair to face the purple challenger. It howled and pushed forward, hard. The Star Spangler ran toward it, drew back his fist, and punched the creature with the force of a Panzer III right on its snout. The last person The Star Spangler hit this hard was the self-proclaimed “indestructible” Destroyo. That blow had knocked the villian’s head off his body and through three-blocks-worth of walls before finally coming to a stop in a second grade classroom. The Star Spangler spent time in therapy after that, but he got better.
The hairy thing shook its head, quickly recovering from the resounding blow. Then reached out and sunk its claws deep into the The Star Spangler’s forearms. It held the hero firmly in place with his arms outstretched. Blood ran freely from the wounds and began to pool on the floor. The Star Spangler grimaced, trying not to show the pain. The crowd fell quiet.
The beast pulled The Star Spangler’s arms further and the cabin filled with the sharp sound of splintering wood. The hero let out a high pitched scream. Then the passengers closest to him began screaming as well. They fell to their knees as blood poured from their ears. His super vocal chords had shattered their ear drums.
With a quick tug, the thing pulled both of The Star Spangler’s arms from their sockets. He shrieked as
blood from his stumps sprayed across the cabin.
The monster swung the right arm like a club, smacking The Star Spangler across the head. He dropped to his knees and his left arm came slamming down. The Star Spangler crumpled as the beast brought both his shiny purple arms down on top of him again and again.
It roared and tossed the arms aside. Then grabbed its wheels and rolled over the fallen superhero.
Dax Thompson flopped back in his chair.
“Ahhhhh . . .”
The coke surged brain and everything went sharp.
“Whew! Damn Chavez, this is some fine shit.”
Chavez took a drag on his joint and adjusted his headpiece. “Told you.”
Dax flipped up the tray table and it slid down next to his seat. He leaned forward and looked out over the Pacific Ocean. Chavez and he had been piloting transpacific flights for going on five years. The two got along great, their hedonism providing a quick bond. While their behaviors unnerved some of the flight staff, and would surely terrify the passengers, they had an impeccable record. If anything, all the drugs helped them to focus. Especially when it came to these nearly fourteen hour marathon runs.
Black lights gave the cockpit an eerie glow. In the center of the console, an undulating lava lamp bubbled martian-green in the stoner-light. Bob Marley played over the cockpit’s private speaker system.
Dax loved these night runs over open water. On the darkest nights, it felt like he was flying through an abyss. And then the lights of land would begin to twinkle in, like he had just traveled through dimensions.