Library e-Book: 978-1-5384-7316-0
Trade e-Book: 978-1-5384-7317-7
© 2018 by Max Allan Collins
This digital document has been produced by Nord Compo.
CHARACTERS (in order of appearance):
AMY – twenties. Damsel in much distress.
WEREWOLF – a growling, snarling beast.
JACK WOLFF – forties, a smooth amoral ladies man.
LONNIE – a teenaged waiter at Wistful Wagon Lodge.
HOSTESS – thirties.
ANNA MULLINS – fifteen years old, lovely, naive.
ANNA’S DAD – Anna’s fifty-ish father.
ANNA’S MOM – Anna’s fifty-ish mother.
SAM HERRIN – thirties cop, State Crime Bureau.
JONES – uniformed cop, twenties.
MUSIC:
FANGORIA THEME
ANNOUNCER:
You can run but you can’t hide. It’s far too late for that. Welcome to the dark side, where the night never ends – as Fangoria presents…Dreadtime Stories. With your host, Malcolm McDowell. Tonight’s Dreadtime Story: “Wolf” by Max Allan Collins.
SOUND:
The woods. Whisper of wind in trees. An owl whooo’s. Insects sing. Then, distant at first, building – a young woman running! Breathing hard.
Terrified.
AMY:
No…no…no…can’t be…can’t be…
SOUNDS:
More running. Amy still breathing hard. Then the savage sounds of a beast tearing through the woods, snapping branches, feet hard and heavy on the ground. Amy is being pursued by a massive creature.
AMY:
Impossible…impossible….
SOUND:
She runs but the beast’s movement is so thundering and inexorable that her running becomes lost in it.
AMY:
(screaming) Noooo! You don’t exist!
SOUND:
Amy screams in terror. And the werewolf howls, blood-chilling. Amy’s screams choke off in an awful gurgle. And we hear the terrible sounds of the beast’s huge sharp teeth rending flesh, ripping. Feasting. Smacking its lips. Limbs of the victim torn away. Then the beast stalks off, dragging something behind it. The night returns to its peaceful woodsy sounds – insects, birds, then a distant howl.
NARRATOR:
He has stalked them for decades, across every continent on the planet, across every racial and ethnic and theological line. He does not care who they are as long as they are women and speak to the animal instincts within him. They are his meat. He prefers them young, of course – supple and sweet. But he has, on occasion, settled. His name is Jack Wolff, and whether that is a simple irony, harking back to a time when men wolf-whistled at women, or a designation that defined him in childhood…who can say? Jack only knows that when the moon is high, he prowls for female flesh…and has done so since an older woman bit him on the neck in the park that long-ago night when he was but thirteen…and since that night…he’s been biting back.
ANNOUNCER:
Fangoria’s Dreadtime Stories will continue in a moment.
ANNOUNCER:
Now back to Fangoria’s Dreadtime Stories, and “Wolf.”
NARRATOR:
Tall, dark, with a full head of widow’s-peaked black hair, Jack Wolff has the cheekbones and finely carved features of a fashion model only rugged, a Marlboro man made “pretty” by long-lashed green eyes that have an almost Asian cast. He’s taken care of himself, Jack has, over the years – no drugs, no drinking, a full regimen of exercise, vitamins, natural foods.
And of course plastic surgery, but the nips and tucks have been infrequent – his eyes done twice, and one little lift. His vices are few – women…and red meat. Right now it’s summer, and he’s staying at the old-fashioned Wistful Wagon Lodge. A young waiter there has sought Jack out for a mentor. A father figure.
SOUND:
Hotel swimming pool, outdoors.
Splashing. An occasional dive. Kids’ laughter and running and even screaming. This can play under much of this scene.
LONNIE:
(off-mic) Mr. Wolff! Can I join you?
WOLFF:
Certainly, Lonnie. But don’t you have work to do? It’ll be lunch soon.
LONNIE:
I don’t go on till this afternoon.
Four.
SOUND:
Scrape on cement of deck chair.
LONNIE:
Kinda surprised to see you sitting at an umbrella table.
WOLFF:
Why is that, Lonnie?
LONNIE:
Well, I mean…you got a regular George Hamilton tan. Why keep out of the sun?
WOLFF:
This isn’t a tan. I’m naturally dark.
If you want to get along with the ladies, Lon, you don’t want to get too much sun. Your skin will dry. All the sun screen in the world won’t help. Be old before your time.
LONNIE:
You mind if I ask…it’s kinda personal…
WOLFF:
I’m forty-nine.
LONNIE:
What? Man, I’d make you ten, fifteen years younger. How is that possible?
WOLFF:
(dryly humorous) Well, it’s not clean living. Plenty of protein in the diet, son. You can’t beat protein.
LONNIE:
How old do I look?
WOLFF:
I’d say you’re sixteen.
LONNIE:
Damn! I’m seventeen. I hate looking young. Girls around here…they don’t seem to go for guys under twenty-one. Even the young ones.
WOLFF:
Well, your burden is my benefit. But really, son…age is no factor. If you’re out of puberty…you are out of puberty…?
LONNIE:
(defensive) I don’t have any pimples or anything.
WOLFF:
I was younger than you when I started.
And at a resort like this…the pickings are so very easy….
LONNIE:
Not to me they aren’t!
WOLFF:
I used to come here as a boy. This place, its heyday was the forties, you know.
LONNIE:
Yeah, it’s a mausoleum, all right.
WOLFF:
No, it has great charm. You mustn’t downplay tradition. I came here with my parents, many times…..
NARRATOR:
In fact, Jack found his first victims here at the Wistful Wagon Lodge, and while he rarely feeds at the same trough twice, that was so many years ago, no one is likely to remember much less recognize him now. He’s been here just over a week, and has scored once already. Normally, he would move on, but there’s been no trouble, after. So he’s staying on, for now.
Just long enough for one more female repast….
LONNIE:
Hey, they still haven’t found the maniac that ripped up that girl. She was stayin’ here, you know.
WOLFF:
So was I. It wasn’t far from my cabin.
LONNIE:
That’s right. I knew that girl.
Well, I spoke to her a couple times.
College girl. Eighteen. Real pretty.
Waited on her and some friends of hers.
WOLFF:
I remember them. They were pretty girls, too…but they got spooked and checked out.
LONNIE:
You don’t miss much, do you, Mr.
Wolff? When they’re good-looking.
WOLFF:
You’re looking for a mentor, Lonnie?
Someone who can guide you in the ways of love?
LONNIE:
Love, or lust. Whatever ya got, Mr. Wolff.
WOLFF:
Well, I like you, Lonnie. You remind me of myself when I was your age,
