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Niagara on the Lake, Ontario, Canada
My virtue is that I say what I think, my vice that what I think doesn't amount to much.

Friday, February 09, 2018

Seeing The Werewolf

This story by Paul Bassett-Davies won the Galley Beggar Press Short Story Prize 2017/18.

WE BOTH PAID FIVE EUROS TO SEE THE WEREWOLF, and when we emerged from the narrow canvas passageway into a small space at the back of the tent it was just a normal guy sitting on a stool. He was wearing sandals, cargo shorts and a polo shirt, and reading a book.
This is bullshit, I said to Sarah.
The guy on the stool looked up and took off his reading glasses. Hello, he said, is there a problem?
I was about to tell him that yes, there appeared to be a problem concerning him not being a werewolf, when Sarah nudged me and directed my attention to the man standing behind me. He was positioned beside the entrance we'd just come through, which, I noticed, was also the only way out. He wore a blue suit that would have looked quite stylish if he'd been able to find one in his size, but I doubted they made them that large. He wasn't alone. A much smaller person was standing on the other side of the doorway but I couldn't tell if it was a man or a woman, or some combination of the two. You never know these days. Especially in Holland, even though we were in a bleak industrial area just north of Rotterdam. I looked hard at this second individual, whose gender remained elusive to me. It didn't help that the light in the tent seemed weirdly dense, or maybe it was the bottle of wine I'd shared with Sarah in the car. However, experience has taught me that when you're confronted by a pair of potential assailants, one of whom is an oversized lummox, always keep your eye on the smaller one because he – or she – is the one who's going to make a sudden move and stab you in the neck while you're worrying about how to deal with the big dude...
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