[The conclusion of the battle between Christopher and the King of the Werewolves]

“No!” I crawled. I pushed myself up. “No…more!”

Lycanon stomped on me with one of his hoofed feet, shattering my spine. I vomited blood.

“Yes! And forever!”

Lycanon turned from me. Turned all of its eyes away. The moon remained, filling my blood with fire, as it always had. The moon, which had been created by God after all. Meat and bone mended themselves, knitted by the silver needles of moonlight.

“No…!” I got my legs beneath me. “…more!”

The bestial rage took me. But the focus of that rage this time was Lycanon. I charged, leapt upon its back.

The fight went on; I know not how long. Always Lycanon would shatter and shred me. Each time the moon would draw me back together with threads of silver fire. As long as the moon burned I did not tire. Looking back upon it now, I think of Joshua leading the children of Israel in battle, and how the sun seemed to stand still in the sky. For me, the moon hung frozen in place, feeding me strength as it always did.

After a time, I perceived that it did not provide the same sustenance to Lycanon. For all its strength, so much greater than mine, the monster’s strength was finite. It had a limit. The moon, however, kept burning, kept right on burning.

The way a trickle of water, over countless eons, will wear away at the hardest stone, or a tiny blade of grass, pressing with its meager might, will in time shatter walls, so did I there in that glade atop the mountain, wear down the monster god Lycanon. Held up by God, I battered away at it, tore at it, till at the very last my teeth found its throat.

“No!” it shrieked, falling beneath me.

“Foul god of the darkness,” I said, the words only inside my mind but spoken in my own voice, “begone!”

My jaws closed on the clammy flesh of the man’s throat. I tore the corpse’s head from the stump of its neck. A geyser of fetid black blood sprayed out over the ground. It tasted sweet, so sweet to me, but the taste changed in an instant to bitterness as the bile went cold.

“Stop!” Lycanon pleaded.

With a blow that broke two of my claws I shattered the wolf’s skull, leaving only the bottom jaw. I batted this away, leaving a stump of vertebrae poking from the gaping wound of the things’ neck. Black smoke that smelled like incense billowed from the aperture.

“Please!” Lycanon begged as the odor of the smoke turned noxious and dissipated.

“For the glory of God!” I thought/spoke.

I sank my teeth into the throat of the middle head, the werewolf head. Tongues of lightning split the sky overhead, for a single second turning all to brightest day. A clap of thunder shook the earth. The entire mountain, perhaps the entire world, trembled as a god died, killed not by another god, but by that God’s servant.

By The Evil Cheezman

WAYNE MILLER is the owner and creative director of EVIL CHEEZ PRODUCTIONS (,, 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


Leave a Reply

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.