Benjamin Percy

The world is a sewer of lies. We__e all up to our necks in the sweet shit of it.

When she thinks of the toxins built up inside of her from so many years of eating carelessly, of the resentment that has grown steadily over fifteen years of marriage, of the stretch marks and the varicose veins that came from two pregnancies, only one of them fulfilled, she thinks the inside of her body must tell a story like a tree. Were she to break open a bone, perhaps it would look like the inside of a coffee mug - riddled with lines, stained with brown blotches.

Yes, I grew up with guns. For my 16th birthday, in fact, I received a .357 instead of a car. But there was nothing playful about them; they were tools. My parents went through a back-to-the-land phase. Most of our vegetables and fruits came from our own garden.

I travel often, so my routine is always getting scrambled. But on a standard sort of day, I get up at 6, pack lunches, hustle the kids off to school, then brew a pot of coffee and head downstairs to the dungeon, as I call it: my cobwebby office in the basement.

They__e always wrong in the movies.

The letting of blood, for him, like the letting of semen.

Fight back. Bite back.

It__ like this. Terror might make someone kill, but love will make someone die. People die for love. They would give up anything for love, even their life. And don__ you see, that__ a denial of the most basic of all human instincts: survival.

Lycans are human.