ghosts, schmosts.

“Into the–” Well that’s not good. He huffed, then puffed, then sucked the air from his teeth. Time and time again, Ulf had brought cats through there, but they weren’t supposed to be in the shop when anyone had clients. And usually not in that part of the shop. Hopefully the poor thing would be scared off enough by the hum of a coil tattoo machine to stay out of that room. 

“Let’s get them in the crate, and we’ll see if she’s caused any major malfunctions inside. And then we can see to getting you something less…meaty to wear.” Transferring the cats from under his arm was a bit trickier than putting them there. A moment is all one would need to scramble off and be free to do his frisky business for another day. But this wasn’t the wolf’s first rodeo. Nor his second. Or third. It was his fourth with this specific maneuver.  “Okay so just tilt the crate back a little just like–” Good. One in. One to go. Minimal surface damage. That’d be healed before they got inside. Hopefully the other wouldn’t notice. White Crest may be a hub for supernatural activity but that didn’t mean every single inhabitant knew about it. Somehow. Seemed like every day there was some new crisis big enough to alert the whole world, but alas. When humans don’t want to know about things, they go to pretty great lengths to ignore them. 

And Two. Cats crated, perimeter secured. Yowling, intensified. Finally he could take a beat to properly introduce himself, albeit a bit louder than normal to counteract the din raised by the tiny furry prisoners. “My name’s Ulfric by the way. I actually own that shop there.” He gestured with one thumb, and held out his opposite hand for a good hardy shake. 

“Did they get you pretty good?” 

For as often as Rohit was attacked by wildlife, you would think he’d be prepared for anything, teeth and claws included. Prepared he was not. 

“Meaty?” He asked, tipping over the crate for the other man. He kept an eye out for extra swipes and hisses, courtesy of the two furry gentlemen who were currently going for his neck. 

Then it dawned on him.

His glasses were in the meat pocket. Repeat, his glasses were in the meat pocket. 

“Ugh,” he groaned, coming to grips with the reality that he’d be picking turkey out of his frames for at least the next day or two. Serves him right for even having a meat pocket at all. “Sorry about the,” he paused, gesturing at himself. “Mess. I like to think I have it together sometimes.” He shrugged as the final cat plopped down into the carrier, angry yowls cursing Ro’s existence. Success. “--but I wouldn’t want to lie to you.” 

Between the two of them, they got the cats secured like an F1 pitstop. Ro visibly brightened at the introduction, his wide grin betraying his otherwise wet dog-like exterior. “Rohit, but I go by Ro. Great to meet you.” He covered the carrier with a tarp he’d kept nearby; one of those cat websites mentioned that cats calmed down faster if they weren’t overwhelmed by visual stimuli. Ro could relate to that enough, all things considered.

If he’d noticed that Ulfric had scratches before, then he’d definitely notice that they were now gone. But he didn’t, of course, because that would mean... things, and Ro had no interest in things that would complicate his otherwise simple life. 

He liked animals and making places look pretty. That was enough for him. 

“Naaaah,” he answered, all masculine bravado but very little to show for it. The spots of red that dotted his pants only grew larger as rain seeped through the fabric. Goosebumps lined the tops of his forearms, and he fought back the urge to fold his arms across his chest.

“It’s all good here. Don’t worry about the clothes, there’s a cat loose in your shop. First things first, right?” He joked, eyes settling on the tattoo parlor’s back door. And, as if on cue, there was the sound of a crash followed by the skittering of kitty claws. 

You're getting weird things too? Seems like it's spreading. I would suggest maybe not putting your hands in the mayo though, just a thought.

Are you speaking from experience of putting your hands in the mayo? I need to know. For science.

Talented, brilliant, incredible, amazing, show stopping, spectacular, never the same, totally unique, completely not ever been done before !

Thank you, thank you. I’ll be here all week. And the next day, and the next day...

... what?

Oh, you know. If you carve holes the right way into any vegetable, you could probably turn it into a recorder. I think someone on YouTube once played something on a sweet potato. 

No, putain. I know it’s not your name. It’s a curse word. French. Which I am. For the record. Also go by Kaden.

Yeah but financial association you can recover from. There’s no coming back from the dead. Usually. They were what? I– I was joking. I mean I hoped I was joking. This town is the mime capitol of the world. Unfortunately. And uh, well, be careful. They might try to murder you. The mimes are evil. Don’t trust them. 

Okay, so what you’re saying is that neither you nor I are a “Putin”, but your name’s Kaden? Gotcha. It’s nice to meet you, Kaden.

“Well ders your first problem.” With a croak of mirth he nodded and moved in. “Hiding the turkey away from these fine upstanding gentlemen.” Instead of heeding the poor man’s advice and going for the pocket, Ulfric opted for the source of the problem. 

Back of the neck, pinch the extra skin and fur. Use the forefinger to gently press between the back teeth until it comes off. It helps if your hand is the size of a baseball glove. He lifted. And forgot about the claws. Surface level scratches don’t mean much when you are A. a large beast of a man, and B. you heal faster because you are a werewolf. 

He did not know how well his new friend would fare. Oops. 

“Apologies for the boys, We should uh, see if we can get them into a cage or something, bring them all to the vet?” He shifted both cats under one arm. They protested. He didn’t mind. Again, the healing factor. He’d had worse. Far worse. Ulfric extended his free hand to pull the other up. “Though I have to say thank you. You did all of the hard part, and brought them here to me so I didn’t have to do the chasing.” 

Apologies for the boys. 

Ro took a moment to register what that... meant. There was a lot to process between the casual scruffing, the lack of pain, and the way the behemoth of a man tucked the cats under his arm like footballs. The conclusion came to Ro in a vision: he was talking to the feral cat dad of White Crest. The boys implied they were his boys, and somehow, that seemed to make sense.

He winced, his drenched jeans speckled with dots of red.

“No apologies needed, thank you,” Ro said, trying not to actively marvel at the man. The control he had was impressive. The cats looked nearly tame.

The top of his hair, where once slicked back by gel, now migrated to the front of his face. It drooped into his eyes, blinding him even more than his wet glasses already were. Some help they turned out to be.

“The crate, right, yeah,” he answered, walking to retrieve it for the man. He set it down between the pair, opting to remove his glasses. He put them in his pocket, forgetting that was where the turkey was. 

@mor-beck-more-problems

Ro had passed by the Old Bachman House plenty of times. He used to see school kids run up to the front door, daring for a knock before scrambling off, tiny little feet stumbling over each other as they screamed. He figured with a house that old, it was simple enough to conjure up some tale about ghouls and grief; rumors were White Crest’s forte, after all. The grief he could believe, but the ghouls? He’d rather not think about the ghouls. 

A shudder went up his spine as he pulled up to the house’s entrance. His 1997 Explorer was older but well cared for. Its exterior was a hardy red, and the rims were a modest, matte steel. He positioned it into park and pulled out his phone, searching through his recent text messages to find one name in particular:

Morgan Beck. 

He knew about as much about Morgan as he did about the Bachman house. He knew the house was old, and he knew Morgan was interested in its further development--Ro figured the rest would come with the house tour. Easy.

[pm]: Just arrived.

Inside my home? What happens if I try to stop the deliveries? Why is it in a bucket?

Ugh, I’m so tired of White Crest.

Party tricks, party tricks... well, I don’t really go to parties, but I can make and play a recorder out of a carrot if that means anything.

Another long slow rainy day. Ulfric moved about the shop like a rolling bank of fog. Lost in thought, just attempting to get something done. Autopilot. Someone had put on a playlist of ‘Low Fai Heep Hop Beets’ or whatever that meant. The low, rhythmic music pulsed through the shop, Luce had a client up in his area, but since he’d only just got back from Colorado he’d not really had time to set up new appointments. 

Only walk-ins. 

Which is fine. 

Fast cash. Easy pieces. The old wolf absolutely preferred a challenge, a nice big art piece with a lot of meaning, but he’d do a thousand infinity signs if he had to, cause that’s business. Although it was— Trash. No- not the idea of simple tattoos, the physical actual thing, piling up too high behind the main counter. Time to take it out. Good. Something to do. Ulf didn’t care for the rain, but didn’t care enough to actually do anything about it in the way of raincoats, umbrellas, or really even waterproof shoes. Something his socks would surely have something to say about. 

Focused entirely on the now very damp soggy swamp pooling in his left shoe, the old wolf made his way to the dumpster, and didn’t notice the commotion until he had the lid half-lifted and bag just about thrown. The garbage cans lined up next to the building, the ones for ‘regular trash’ not the biohazardous sort. Something was causing a ruckus over there. Too big to be a raccoon, and too well dressed. And currently being assaulted by what sounded like two very angry, possibly horny, but ultimately pissed off cats. 

The ginger mountain of a man stifled a chuckle, finished his task, and lumbered over.  “Need any help there?” 

The cats were absolutely horny, and they’d just been cockblocked by a guy with turkey in his pants. It sounded like a setup to some bad joke, but unfortunately for Ro, this was what had become of his day. The Maine Coon darted away from all the commotion and slinked in through the tattoo parlor’s door. The other two, still hot on his trail, sank their claws into the denim of Ro’s jeans. He made a muffled sound somewhere between a groan and a squeak.

It took a moment to recognize that he now had company.

“Uh,” he started, his eyes still glued on the tom cats. One had started purring at the sight of the turkey unraveling itself from his pants pocket. “Maybe? They’re not doing anything wrong, but I can’t say the claws feel too great.” 

A lone cloud drifted across the sky and cast a large shadow as it rolled past Ro’s new company. The silhouette formed on the concrete looked as though it belonged to a monster truck, and when he looked up, Ro couldn’t say that impression was too far off. 

The man was big, and that was saying something coming from a rather tall guy himself. First he noticed the beard, then he noticed the color--it was hard to pinpoint, a deep, billowing red tamped down by skin. It felt... heavy, somehow, and he wasn’t sure where he’d seen it before or if he ever had at all.

Ro blinked. The cloud brought with it droplets of rain, and soon enough, he could feel his shirt begin to cling onto his skin.

You know, I knew we got on well for a reason. Business aside of course. A Tushy. It’s already in my online shopping cart. I’m definitely not also picking out nice new towels. Might as well give the whole bathroom a pick me up. If you like bubble baths, I have a bubble set and an over bath table for books and drinks that are a must have. 

And here I thought it was my strong work ethic and keen eye for detail that gotcha. Come to find out it’s the Tushy, well I’ll be damned.