So last night I was on patrol in Hell’s Kitchen. On the roof of this barbecue place on like 8th Avenue, I think. Eventually you start to forget what streets you’re on when you’re like three or four stories off the ground.
Anyway, it was a bit past midnight and the Crimefighters Union (Local 108!) had gotten a tip about a gang of hipster werewolves robbing banks in the area, late nights. (I probably don’t need to tell you about that weird Lunar Energy Drink they’ve been using to stay in Wolf form for however long they want. You watch NY1.)
So I’ve just about lost any hope of coming across these guys when all of a sudden I hear someone banging around the trash alongside this barbecue joint. I tiptoe over to the edge of the roof and right there, plain as day, is a werewolf in tight black jeans, white belt, and a My Other Car Is A Bicycle t-shirt. I pull my tape deck out of the pocket of my red, Union-approved jumpsuit and push play.
I hear him say to himself “Is that the last Radiohead album?” before a huge, neon school of strange-ass fish overwhelm him and slam him into the wall at the end of the alleyway. I push stop, the fish disappear, and I make my way to the street down a rusty tangle of fire escapes. Unconscious, he slowly reverts to his human form, face slowly emerging from behind the beard that somehow stayed intact in his feral state.
The two burlap sacks in his lap, I swear to god, have dollar signs on them.