Note to readers: I’m not sure how graphic this story will get – I don’t intend to go into much detail in the sex and violence, but I’m not promising anything – so if you’re under 18 or you’re very squeamish, or you’re expecting a nice little fairytale, please stop reading here. K?
Once upon a time, there was a woman named Red Riding Hood – for a night.
She stood before her mirror, gazing critically at her reflection. Legs – shaved. Underarms – shaved. ‘Private’ areas – waxed. She donned her outfit, and checked again. Perfect. Except that hoods and hair really didn’t go well together. She frowned at the mirror, went to her bathroom, and added some hair wax. She plastered the hair down and smiled. Nothing short of a hurricane would move it now.
Roger, the wolf, admired himself in the mirror. Three extra gym sessions a week had been worth the burn. His oiled muscles gleamed, his waxed chest shimmered as it flexed. All in beautiful contrast to the shaggy mask which blended almost seamlessly with his dyed-grey hair. He drew on the shaggy fingerless gloves and preened some more. A pair of tight, shaggy grey shorts and a pair of black shitkicker boots, and he was done. The wolf was ready to prowl.
Red Riding Hood got into the taxi, clutching her cloak carefully around her, flashing leg up to the hip to one lonely observer – who stared, and never forgot the sight as long as he lived.
Roger slung a leg over his bike and gunned the motor, shivering as the growl vibrated through him. THe roared down a street full of inner-city folk who, used to all manner of sights, still turned to gawp at the sight of a werewolf on a Harley.
The party. A high-class establishment with a run-down, smelly exterior. Its existence is an open secret in the area, the bums sleeping in the covered alley at the side just a little impressed to be near such splendour. The bouncers – tonight dressed as trolls dripping lichen and slime – were even more selective than usual. Was it a secret signal? observers wondered, having been rejected for entry. Maybe the strength of the outfit? A theme?
A woman in bright red stilettos and ankle-length cloak emerged, long bare legs first, from a taxi. One dark, smoky eyelid lowered in a wink at a troll as she sauntered through the doorway unchallenged. A man dressed in Armani and Gucci sucked in a breath and whistled it out quietly.
“Now that,” he remarked to his fellow rejects, “is a woman I’d let in anywhere.”
A woman nearby snorted, and walked away to find another, less picky nightclub. She stepped off the footpath onto the nearly-deserted road, deep in thought about the frustrations and injustices of her young night. A motorbike’s roar barely impinged on her consciousness, until it was nearby and all too real and screeching brakes and burning rubber. A Harley lay close enough for her to feel the heat from its engine against her ankles.
“Woman,” said the werewolf sitting on the ground a couple of metres away, rubbing an elbow oozing blood, “You’re bloody lucky you’re not dead!”
The woman screamed and ran away, tottering and tripping on too-high heels.
The werewolf sighed, picked himself up, and picked up his bike. No harm to it, at least, and only scrapes and bruises to himself.
“Daft bint,” he muttered, and gunned the engine before roaring away to make his entrance.