Wolf Moon

I hunger.
The moon is full.
It’s pale blue lifeblood spills through a large bay window to my right, bathing the empty room in a spectral glow. The leather couch, on which I recline, and a small stainless steel nightstand to my left, are among the only furniture in the house. On the nightstand there is a black telephone.
I make the call.
Bill’s voice sounds different tonight. I can’t quite place it. There is something strained about it. He tells me the time and the drop off point. We agree the price. He says he is out after tonight.
He says that every time.
I slowly place the phone back on the nightstand, beside the coke. I press play on the hi-fi remote and as I drain both glasses, the opening howl of The Misfits’ “Dig up Her Bones” echoes through the empty rooms.
It’s 3.05 when I watch the yellow taxi pull away among the pines and for a moment I catch a glimpse of Bill’s scowling, make- up caked face. I wait till his car is safely out of sight and move in.
Something’s not right, however. The package is cold. A strange yet somehow familiar odour emanates from the box, like something from a half remembered nightmare.
With grim apprehension I open this Pandora’s box and in the light of the full moon gaze upon the horror within.
Pepperoni.
I howl now. Suspended for eternity in that moment of madness.
I howl at the moon.