boucher book oct28.pdf - Index of

The Compleat Werewolf 21
screen against magnetic bombs is a tried and proven success, to the glory of our
country and science and the Lord.”
“Crackpot,” the electrician muttered.
The man in costume peered around the altar. “Crackpot, hell! That’s Chiswick
from the physics department. Think of a man like that falling for this stuff! And listen
to him: He’s even telling about the government’s plans for installation. You know, I’ll
bet you one of these fifth columnists could pick up something around here.”
There was silence in the Temple when the congregation had finished its thanksgiving.
Professor Fearing leaned over the lectern and spoke quietly and impressively.
“As you know, brothers in Darkness, tonight is May Eve, the thirtieth of April, the
night consecrated by the Church to that martyr missionary St. Walpurgis, and by
us to other and deeper purposes. It is on this night, and this night only, that we
may directly give our thanks to the Lower Lord himself. Not in wanton orgy and
obscenity, as the Middle Ages misconceived his desires, but in praise and in the deep,
dark joy that issues forth from Blackness.”
“Hold your hats, boys,” said the man in the costume. “Here I go again.”
“Eka!” Fearing thundered. “Dva tri chatur! Pancha! Shas sapta! Ashta nava dasha
ekadasha!” He paused. There was always the danger that at this moment some
scholar in this university town might recognize that the invocation, though perfect
Sanskrit, consisted solely of the numbers from one to eleven. But no one stirred,
and he launched forth in more apposite Latin: “Per vota nostra ipse nunc surgat nobis
dicatus Baal Zebub!”
“Baal Zebub!” the congregation chorused.
“Cue,” said the electrician, and pulled a switch
The lights flickered and went out. Lightning played across the sanctuary. Suddenly
out of the darkness came a sharp bark, a yelp of pain, and a long-drawn howl
of triumph.
A blue light now began to glow dimly. In its faint reflection, the electrician was
amazed to see his costumed friend at his side, nursing his bleeding hand.
“What the hell—” the electrician whispered.
“Hanged if I know. I go out there on cue, all ready to make my terrifying appearance,
and what happens? Great big hell of a dog up and nips my hand. Why
didn’t they tell me they’d switched the script?”
In the glow of the blue light the congregation reverently contemplated the plump
little man with the fringe of beard and the splendid gray wolf that stood beside him.
“Hail, O Lower Lord!” resounded the chorus, drowning out one spinster’s murmur
of “But my dear, I swear he was much handsomer last year.”
“Colleagues!” said Ozymandias the Great, and there was utter silence, a dread
hush awaiting the momentous words of the Lower Lord. Ozymandias took one
step forward, placed his tongue carefully between his lips, uttered the ripest, juiciest
raspberry of his career, and vanished, wolf and all.
Wolfe Wolf opened his eyes and shut them again hastily. He had never expected
the quiet and sedate Berkeley Inn to install centrifugal rooms. It wasn’t fair. He
lay in darkness, waiting for the whirling to stop and trying to reconstruct the past
night.