The Wolf Nail in the Coffin
Copyright © 2016 by Penny Tawret
All Rights Reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means – except in the case of brief quotations embodied in articles or reviews – without written permission from its publisher.
“Well, look who just emerged from the depths of the savannah.” My good old she-wolf girl, Jera Hallowell quipped as all the rest of both my fellow Skeenas and I; along with each and every one of the Hystericals and Golden Thunder Pack family strolled in through the main entrance doors of the Keystone cathedral, built and owned by the Philadelphia chapter of the Black Panthers anti-crime and animal rights organization in which Jera served as the proud general of. Jera was a young she-wolf around twenty four from the more holy motherland of Sweden; who blew in here about thirteen years ago around the tender age of eleven with her parents, Nadine and Sven back in early 2028. One late night at around midnight while returning from her usual round of rugby practice after school, she and her family were both pulled over by Philadelphia’s quote unquote, “finest”, on an apparent offense of her father, Sven failing to heed a stop sign; which even all the way back then as a wee pup, she could already pick up the scent of bullshit like blood from a kill more than a million miles away. Sven, as I knew him, was always the kindest, loving, and most considerate wolf and living being I’d ever known on this earth, right up there with his daughter and mate. Always, while on the road, he putted along at nearly a snail’s pace which always drove old Nadine halfway crazy, but even she herself knew that he not only looked after and cared more than considerably for his family and own self, but also the many more than billions of lives of all the many other species inhabiting the world around him, and even took every chance he possibly got on his off days from Amtrak to donate to local third world refugee charities and homeless food drives on his still rather diminutive train crew salary of one eighty two a week. The neega black bear officer proceeded to yank him forcefully out of the car without one bit of logical or fucking near reasonable suspicion; clearly other than Driving While Wolf, and then had the absolute pussified balls and audacity to pin him along with a female bear officer down firmly to the pavement, all while little Jera and her mother could be heard literally howling in sheer horror on the camcorder footage. The officer yelled out more than dickishly, “Motherfucker, if you resist yet another goddamn time, I will blow your fucking head off!” About a second or so after, my heart leapt in my throat when I heard the stomach churning pow of the discharge of a nine millimeter round, followed by absolutely nothing but complete and utter shocked silence. I could hear poor Nadine sobbing so hard and so much to a point where she retched and I could sickeningly hear the sound of her stomach contents splashing against the floor of the front seat floor of the minivan. It had been nearly ten years for me now since this very day, but now, here they both were sitting silent as statues next to me in the pew. Jera was dressed more than elegantly in her usual garb of the all black biker style leather jacket of the movement; matching almost strikingly with her silky smooth jet black and grey fur, along with her signature skull and crossbones crop top which revealed a toned and sculpted lupine physique underneath. Her dusty black leather trousers looked as if they had just been pressed, and although she wore no form of footwear, always kept her toe claws pedicured to a point and glistening with silvery clear polish. Her mother, Nadine was almost an exact carbon copy except with her eyes colored the typical wolfish gold and donning her usual Sunday style attire of a banana yellow and floral patterned bonnet along with a Dick Tracy era trench coat, and her usual choice of red closed toed pump shoes like you see in those old bogus and stereotypical red riding hood tales or little bo peep. Rhonda smiled weakly, shaking hands gratuitously with both of them as she sat down in the row in front of us. “Thank you so much for joining me and the guys on this very moment in time. Both of you.” She said slowly. “Finally, it’s good to damn well know I’m not the only one trying to cope and deal with the uncertainty of this type of tragedy. I’m dearly sorry for your own loss as well.” “Anytime, min van.” Jera replied in her thick Scandinavian accent. “We’re gonna make this right, sister. Even if it’s my last day living in this she-wolf body on earth, we’re gonna damn well make this right.”
“Well, look who just emerged from the depths of the savannah.” My good old she-wolf girl, Jera Hallowell quipped as all the rest of both my fellow Skeenas and I; along with each and every one of the Hystericals and Golden Thunder Pack family strolled in through the main entrance doors of the Keystone cathedral, built and owned by the Philadelphia chapter of the Black Panthers anti-crime and animal rights organization in which Jera served as the proud general of.