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THE CONFESSIONS OF SAINT CHRISTOPHER: WEREWOLF Part 63

[NOTE: This is it, peeps! The first installment of the big fight between the beasts!]

Never, save once, have I remembered with such perfect clarity the things that happen when I am in the form of the beast. All other times, the memories are distant, as though viewed through water, more like a dream half remembered at waking. But in the Roman Coliseum, when God shut my jaws lest I did harm to His children, and on this night, on Lycanon’s unhallowed mountain, those twain occasions do I remember well, when I did retain my full awareness.

My strength seemed as nothing compared to Lycanon’s, to this thing that chose to bear that name, this fiend from the primordial nothingness that existed before God’s first act of creation. It swatted me aside as I had swatted the flies. Again and again I rose, each time struck down again. Lycanon’s claws tore me open, its teeth crushed my bones. It snapped down on my shoulder and wrenched my arm from its socket, almost tearing it off. My blood showered the ground, the exposed flagstones of the temple where once so many died in sacrifice to appease this insatiable monster.

The beast still claimed its sacrifices. Each time one of the Cynocephali killed, that death fed Lycanon. With every drop of blood shed by one of the Dogheads, Lycanon tasted its salt. And those atrocities would continue for as long as God allowed.

I fell again, unable to rise, torn and broken and dying upon the broken walls of Lycanon’s temple.

“Fool!” Lycanon said. “You thought to challenge me? You have been mine since your first bloodletting! When you butchered that little sow you loved on the banks of that stream where you later pledged your loyalty to the god of weakness! The god of sheep!”

Consumed by agony, I waited for death. I craved it. “Kill me!” I managed to speak, the first and only time I would ever speak while in the form of the Doghead.

“Praise me, and I will,” Lycanon said. “I will toss your god the remains of your soul, as a master tosses scraps to his yapping cur. Praise me in his stead, Lycanon, the god of wolves in place of your god of sheep!”

“No!”

“Then die denying me. Either way it is the same. I claim victory. This world is mine!”

By The Evil Cheezman

WAYNE MILLER is the owner and creative director of EVIL CHEEZ PRODUCTIONS (www.evilcheezproductions.blogspot.com, www.facebook.com/evilcheezproductions), specializing in theatrical performances and haunted attractions. He has written, produced and directed (and occasionally acted in) over a dozen plays, most of them in the Horror and Crime genres. His first novel, THE CONFESSIONS OF SAINT CHRISTOPHER: WEREWOLF, is available for purchase at https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/734763

MORTUI VELOCES SUNT!

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