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This Week In Weird Twitter, Volume 131

By: Rich Cromwell
9 min read
Pixabay.com

As the moon rises, another shirt and pair of shoes get ruined.

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Rich Cromwell
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The year was 2020. There was a man, except he was a dog. The dog, however, was a wolf. The wolf was a werewolf. And inside the chest of the werewolf beat the heart of a man, as one might expect. That’s where things got interesting, for inside the heart of a man was the heart of a hound dog, or some other dog that likes to make noise at the slightest provocation. The important thing was that howling was an option for getting things off his chest.

Beyond that, though, was another heart. That’s right. For inside the heart of the dog beating inside the heart of the man beating inside the heart of the werewolf was a small gnome, as opposed to a large gnome. The gnome had all sorts of levers and pulleys with which to operate the various hearts, as well as the various appendages attached to the werewolf. There were a few arms and a few legs, two expressive eyebrows and similarly expressive ears, as is befitting a dog.

He had no tail, though, and that was the source of his discontent. People tended to shy away from a werewolf bearing down on them when all he wanted to do was play fetch. A tail would be a handy way to communicate that, not that he was bitter or anything.


He did, however, want to be defined by oral hygiene. It wasn’t something werewolves normally practiced, but it was near and dear to one of the hearts beating in his chest.


Still, though, he was mildly perturbed at one item contained in this catalog.


Besides, there were other areas he could focus on improving.


There was also this to consider.


Plus he could always fall back on his long, luxurious, flowing hair.


As well as his overarching mission.


Though maybe his mind was just asunder because it had been so long since he’d slept. The whole full moon thing was myth. The real secret to his transformation was much more mundane.


As was his secret to cross country travel.


Plus, lycanthropy wasn’t his only curse.


Not by a long shot. He was also triggered by overly-creative presentation.


Fortunately, his wingman was there to help. Or “help.”


Though they did have disagreements.


Except when it came to ribs.


And artistic decisions.


And also professionalism.


He had another thought with which to share with his cactus.


Not that he didn’t have concerns. Well, concerns other than the lack of a tail.


This concern, too.


Better than a silver bullet, right? Or maybe worse.


There was also the fact that the whole full moon/well-made bed paradigm tended to leave him wandering around wondering. That gave him an idea for a bumper sticker.


Also, a potential career path.


Which wasn’t without its own challenges, especially as the lack of a tail meant people didn’t know he was just being friendly.


He also knew that things could be worse.


Still…


Nevertheless, he decided to move on.


For he did have fancy plans, and pants to match.


Not least because he was tired of worrying about his lack of a tail, expressive, prehensile, or otherwise. That wasn’t really his problem.


Because, again, he had plans.


And he had a chariot.


No one said these plans or even his chariot were good.


Nor has anyone ever said that mythical animals can’t have spirit animals.


Or that they couldn’t be some sort of mythological deity shapeshifting into a shapeshifter.


Then he remembered that he couldn’t remember who he was talking to.


“Same,” he thought.


It was then that he realized his chariot might offer him some difficulty.


Nevertheless, he was footloose and fancy free.


Minus one eternal truth.


Growls and phantom tail wags were much more effective, especially when planning for the tax man.


Though he wasn’t averse to technology. He was a lycanthrope, not a luddite.


And for that, he made no apologies.


Especially as he had no team. As Martha would say, that was a good thing.


The moon high in the sky, our hero lurched off into the distance, his non-existant tail not between his legs, but proudly wagging out various messages. His plans were slowly taking form, unlike his hair visage which quickly took form upon being bathed in moonlight or viewing an especially well-made bed. Maybe those plans were just a nugget of a kernel, but they still counted, like a pebble in your shoe.

Not that our hero wore shoes as his big paws just ripped them up, as did his extra-large toenails. In any case, he was alert, focused, and intent. The world would know he didn’t have any ill-intent, except for all the ill-intent he harbored. He wagged his phantom tail and made a proclamation, one filled with love and understanding. The villagers may have misunderstood, what with all the howling, but he didn’t let that stop him. He was filled with the love of multiple hearts and gnomes, after all.

Richard Cromwell is a writer and senior contributor at The Federalist. He lives in Northwest Arkansas with his wife, three daughters, and two crazy dogs. Co-host of the podcast Coffee & Cochon, you can find him on Facebook and Twitter, though you should probably avoid using social media.

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