You knew werewolves were peculiar creatures, but it didn't always dawn on you just how old they could get. Not until the night you stumbled on a Baroque-era painting of the one who lived with the pack down the road. He was a nice enough guy, helped out around the neighborhood events, talked to everyone like they were his favorite pup. Had to weigh at least a ton, but instead of being intimidating or off-putting, it just gave him the feel of a favorite old teddy bear, or a comfortably soft beanbag chair. And he cooked the best damn venison steaks in the county.
And now here on your phone, you were looking at a painting of a muscular mountain of wolf brandishing a battle axe, howling with enough vigor to shake the moon itself. "The Crimson Scourge," the artwork was titled. The pattern of its pelage was disturbingly like that of the enormous wolf calling out "Come and get it!" as his massive mallowy middle, far too much for the novelty "Lick the Cook" apron, swayed dangerously close to his new barbecue grill.
You struggled with the contrast until at last, some mixture of anxiety and courage led you to blurt out, "Lars? ... did you ever live in Finland?"
"Hm?" His ears flicked toward you before the rest of his corpulent bulk followed suit, and his eyes crinkled up in a nostalgic smile. "Oh, yah! Like, three hundred years ago." His chest and belly quaked with soft laughter as he added, "That was back when I was young and foolish. I think the locals called me The Big Red Bother or something like that."
