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its downward journey, revealing a third set of breasts located just above her belt buckle. Now completely exposed, she stood with her hands on her hips and sneered, daring Johnny to turn and face her.
    He came to on his hands and knees, his body racked by muscle spasms. He must have blacked out. The stink of fresh bile joined the odor of stale urine, making the air even fouler than it had been before.
    I am drunker than I thought, he told himself.
    When he returned to the dance floor he saw the punk chick was at her table. Her jacket was open, and she was still wearing her leopard-print shirt. She smiled at him as he walked by.
    This was getting too damned weird. All he wanted was to get laid. Was that really too much to ask? Johnny looked forward to his weekends and the chance to exert his control over others via silk ties and bed posts. Now all of that was being turned upside down by a platinum blonde slut in fuck-me shoes. He pushed his way to the bar, eager to blur the memory of six nipples pointed in his direction. Somewhere around his third gin and tonic, he realized they’d switched bands. He looked around, searching the bar for sign of the girl with the mirrored eyes. His shoulders slumped upon realizing she was gone. There were plenty of women still hanging around, but as far as he was concerned they were nothing more than consolation prizes.
    A tall, leggy secretary who looked like she’d stepped out of a music video made her interest in him quite clear while borrowing a light for her cigarette, but he could not bring himself to respond to her overtures. He paid for his drinks and headed for the door.
    The humid night air closed around him like a sweaty palm. He loosened the knot on his keffiey, grimacing as his stomach began a series of queasy barrel rolls. By the end of the block he was leaning against a telephone pole studded with rusty staples and the faded tatters of band flyers, wiping the sweat from his upper lip with a shaky hand.
    Christ, I must be getting old! Maybe I should call a cab, he thought, and then shook his head. In a couple more blocks he’d be able to catch either the streetcar or a bus, and the fresh air would do him good. Suddenly his guts violently surged and he staggered into a nearby alley and puked next to a dumpster.
    Maybe I’m sick. The flu or something. I must have picked up some kind of bug at work. His hands trembled as he wiped at his lips.
    It wasn’t until he heard the growling sound that Johnny realized he wasn’t alone in the alley. At first he assumed he’d surprised a stray dog raiding unsecured garbage cans. Johnny peered into the alley, trying to locate the animal. The last thing he needed to do was trip over the damned thing in the dark. He edged back toward the street, trying not to make any abrupt moves that might provoke the animal. The growl gave way to an agonized yelp and then a gray blur shot towards him from the darkness, striking his kneecap and knocking him into the side of the dumpster. He vaguely registered the image of a Labrador retriever bolting towards the street.
    â€œGoddamn mutt …” he groaned as he struggled to his feet, only to freeze upon seeing what lurked at the end of the alley.
    There were five of them, their pelts shining greasily in the dim light. At first he thought they were dogs, but then he saw their hands. The things were gathered around what remained of a German shepherd. The poor animal lay on its side, legs twitching blood bubbling from its nostrils. One of the creatures—its fur the color of clotted cream—squatted next to the dying animal, lolling its tongue in parody of its suffering, before savagely ripping out its throat.
    Though he’d never been a horror movie buff, Johnny knew that the shaggy, crooked-legged creatures were werewolves. But that was impossible. Maybe he was hallucinating the whole thing.
    The thing that killed the dog stood upright on its crooked hind legs, revealing