Chapter 32
Roscoe’s Purpose
Cody
The beat of bass thumped through the poorly lit alley, and a door opened and slammed shut. The sound was followed by a heavy crash into plastic bags as someone fell into them, scattering bottles and cans while sending screaming rats scurrying into the streets.
Though I knew everything was a vision of the past, the realism was startling. I might not have been able to interact with most of the people and objects, but sights, smells, and sounds were vivid. Especially the smells. There was one smell in particular attached to a snoring lump I knew well.
Though he looked a lot younger and thinner, the werewolf sprawled out over plastic bags was Roscoe.
He was drunk, of course, but there was also something different about his body, like he had gone completely numb from the neck down.
There was no way to know how much time had passed between the last vision and now.
However, judging from the blocky Pontiac GTO parked on the other side of the street and the tie-dye Volkswagen minibus behind it, it was safe to assume the decade.
The door to the club opened again, and another werewolf hobbled out, followed by an irate human man.
“You’re both fired,” the human shouted in a thick Italio-American accent, pouring a pitcher of ice water onto Roscoe’s head. “Get the hell outta here, or I’m calling Vince.”
“C’mon man,” the tall, black werewolf said as Roscoe gasped and moaned. “He’s having a gnarly trip. I told you he hadn’t done this stuff before.”
“He shagged my girl. If we didn’t go way back, I wouldn’t think twice about having him tied up and thrown in the lake.”
The partially sober werewolf grabbed Roscoe’s arm before lifting it over his shoulders.
With a series of half-aware grunts, Roscoe leaned into him as they disappeared around the corner.
The scene faded and reappeared, Bon Jovi blaring through the speakers in a small room full of colorful lights.
There were two werewolves, including Roscoe and one dark-skinned half-turn lying naked on a sturdy coffee table with lines of cocaine trailing down his chest. He looked to be close to turning because he was hairier and had a small tail jutting from his lower back.
Roscoe knelt next to the half-turn, his snout inches away from the white powder, but a clawed hand caught his nose.
“Hold it,” the half-turn said with an impatient scowl. “One hundred for the blow, one hundred and fifty for the blow job. Two hundred for a full fuck.”
“Aw man. I only got a hundred.” Roscoe backed away, reaching into the pocket of his orange, discarded hoodie pocket that had been lying on the ripped couch.
The half-turn gawked at Roscoe’s thick cock and licked his lips. “Maybe I’ll give you a discount,” he said, grabbing Roscoe’s slick shaft while pointing to one of the lines. “You get that one”—he pointed to the other black werewolf from the alley—“and you get the other.”
Both of them turned into beasts and pressed their snouts into the cocaine, the stimulant mixing with half-turn pheromones making them snarl with ecstasy.
When they were done, Roscoe was barely able to slow himself enough to allow the guy time to prepare.
His dick sank into the needy half-turn’s ass, eliciting a low gasp as the other werewolf positioned himself at the other end.
Part of me was a little jealous, but the other part of me knew where this was headed.
A human man walked into the room, younger-looking with light brown hair fashioned into a mullet, his thick facial hair trimmed into long sideburns and a soul patch.
The black-furred werewolf immediately caught his scent and grabbed the man’s arm in a fit of lust.
“Darryl,” the half-turn shouted as Roscoe thrusted harder. “Get the hell outta here.” He grabbed the other werewolf by the dick and pulled. “He’s a human. Leave him alone.”
The black werewolf yelped and turned his attention back to the half-turn on the coffee table. Human Darryl slowly backed out of the door. So that’s what he looked like. I’d have never guessed aside from the facial hair, considering he was about four inches shorter than me.
The vision progressed until it was just Roscoe sitting on a stained carpet, leaning against the corner as he slowly came down from another state of mixed inebriation and stimulant abuse.
“You look pathetic,” came a young man’s voice.
I turned toward Darryl who sat on a wooden chair while plucking a guitar string, twisting the tuning knobs at the top. It was a beautiful instrument, hand-carved and lovingly polished.
“I wish you’d stop coming around here,” he continued, staring in disgust.
“Don’t like me?” Roscoe slurred. “Join the club.”
“The only reason Ramón keeps you around is because he’s about to turn.”
“Guess I’m the only one that can make his eyes roll back, huh?” He looked up at Darryl. “Ever been fucked by a werewolf before?”
“None of your business.” Darryl held up a hand. “Also, I know where this is going, and no. I’d rather dive head-first into a sewer.”
“Eh. I’m too tired anyway.”
Darryl gave the guitar one final test strum before playing something sounding like flamenco. Roscoe smiled, his tail swaying in time with the rhythm.
“Shit, dude. You’re good,” Roscoe said. “Like really good. Who taught you to play?”
“My dad,” Darryl responded, his eyes closed as he focused on the music.
“Is yer old man famous or somethin’?”
Darryl stopped mid-strum before opening his eyes again. He gently placed the guitar on a stand before reaching for an ashtray with a pre-rolled joint pressed between the divots lining the center.
“You want a hit?” he asked, positioning the joint between his lips.
“Can’t turn down free weed.” Roscoe pushed himself off the floor and sat on the other chair at the table.
After taking two hits, Darryl passed it to Roscoe. He took in a deep drag, holding it in and exhaling loudly.
“I want to get out of this place,” Darryl said, taking the joint back from Roscoe. “You ever been to the beach?”
“A few times. White Dunes is a three-hour bus ride.”
“I wanna go there, but I’m scared. I don’t have the money to leave, and Ramón wants me to take over this shitheap.”
“He’s got cash. Ask him for some money to get you started.”
Darryl laughed. “You don’t just ask Ramón to give you money with no strings attached. He’s been guilting me into working under him since he gave me a place to stay. I want to repay him, but I don’t want to live here anymore.” He looked up at Roscoe. “I’ll end up like you if I stay.”
Roscoe coughed and snorted, seemingly hurt. Strange considering he seemed to revel in his lifestyle when I first met him.
“Yeah, you don’t want that.”
“What’s your deal, anyway?”
The werewolf shrugged. “Don’t know. Can’t remember nothin’, but I know that’s probably for the best.” He reached into his hoodie pocket and pulled out a fat wad of cash before casually dropping it on the table. “Was gonna use this for something harder, but I think you should go to the beach.”
Darryl’s eyes widened. “What are you doing?”
“Makin’ sure you don’t end up like me. There’s five hundred. It should be enough to get you there. It’s gonna be hard for you.” He sniffed the air before turning to Darryl. “That ain’t weed. It’s you…”
“What do you mean? You don’t know me.” Darryl pushed the money away. “What do you want?”
Roscoe picked up the stack and pressed it into Darryl’s hand, then stood.
He walked over to the front door and slipped outside before looking back.
“I want you to find what makes you happy, and you got the talent to do something good. Don’t waste it here.
And when you change, don’t let it ruin yer life.
” With that, he disappeared into the night, closing the door behind him.
The scene shifted to outdoors. Rows of blue tarps over refrigerator boxes lined the sidewalk of the city’s outskirts.
Trash bags full of belongings were stacked in grocery carts, discarded needles and balled-up aluminum foil were scattered along the street.
Roscoe walked along the encampment with bags of hot food next to a one-legged middle-aged man who hobbled along using a rusty walker.
“Here ya go sweetheart,” Roscoe said, handing an old lady a plastic container, giving her a wink. “Made yer favorite.”
She blushed and graciously took the food from his hands. “Thank you, handsome.”
“You sober now?” the man asked as they walked by another tent. Roscoe set the last bag in front of it.
“Nope,” he replied as they continued toward a wooden bench. The man sat and Roscoe joined him, crossing one leg over the other. “You better be, though.”
“I am, I swear.”
They both took deep breaths through their noses.
“I just love the smell of piss in the morning,” the man said, leaning back and pointing at all the tents.
“Behold. The foundation of the richest country in the world, and everyone ignores it. We get used up, and when they’re done—” A gunshot in the distance made the man scream as he held his face in his hands.
“It would have been less of an insult to die in the war.”
Roscoe slipped an arm over the man’s shoulder. “Lean into me. Don’t worry. No one’s gonna do nothin’ with a big scary monster around.”
The veteran cried out, grabbing tufts of Roscoe’s fur and burying his face in it. The episode went on for a few minutes before he pulled away.
“You’ve got some powerful pits, dude.” He wiped his face with the dirty collar of his coat.
“They’re good fer what ails ya.” Roscoe patted the man on the back. “Sometimes we all need someone to hold onto. I ain’t got the answers for ya, but I do got a soft shoulder.”
“You’re a damn saint.”