He saw the placeholder, you tried to pull today,
But your humiliation means he still votes neigh.
And now assassination is just the only way...
There will be blood,
It might be yours,
So go kill someone,
Signed Bad Horse.

Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck! Not Lon Chaney. Not one bit like Lon Chaney at all.

Fuck.

This was not some poor fellow who was misunderstood and just wanted to be loved. This was a blood-matted, furry wall of meat the size of a Buick. I've seen tanks smaller than that thing. It wasn't a werewolf. It was a were-dinosaur. With fur. Or watever those furry things were that cave men used to hunt. The wooly monsters. One of those. It was big. I managed to get the silver bullets I requisitioned, but fuck if that did me any good. I was too busy running for my life to get more than one shot off, and I'm not even sure if I hit it.

I need a bigger gun. I need a machine gun, with silver bullets. If the gun could be made out of silver too, even better. And bombs. We'll need bombs. Nothing likes getting blown up. We'll put silver in the bombs. Good idea. I'll mention that. Good idea.

My hands are still shaking. Took a couple swallows of whiskey, but I think they got lost along the way. Took another swallow to check up on the first two. Then another swallow to follow the last one for moral support. Have yet to hear back from them.

Oh, and there was someone else, that we ran into while we were out there. An FBI agent. He called us idiots and mocked our ability to run away from fur Buicks.

I hate this job. I need a bazooka. And a tank. Made of silver.

Even a man who is pure in heart
and says his prayers by night
may become a wolf when the wolfbane blooms
and the autumn moon is bright.

...or however it goes. On my last cigarette. Shouldn't smoke this much.

I don't think Danielewski is the one who had me reassigned. Not anymore. All the research I've been doing for the past few years, it wasn't to appease the government's idle curiousity. These things are real, or at least someone believes they are. Real enough to make a task force to deal with them. Word is, there's a werewolf running around London, and it's our job to deal with it. Whatever that means.

Some of the others are skeptical, think this all has a mundane explaination, but if our werewolf was really a German in a fur coat, the brass would have sent grunts to deal with it, not us. I'll see about requestioning some silver bullets later. Our wolfman might turn out to be as good-natured as Lon Chaney, but I've already died on paper this week. No need to add truth to a perfectly good lie.

████████████████████I wonder if the Army's ████ ████████ ██████ ████████████ █████ ███████ ██████ ████████████ ██████ ████ ██████████ aggie will sa ███████ ███████ ██████ ███████████ ██████████ ███████ ████████ ███████ ██████████████ ew regrets, but yet ██████████████ ████████ ██████ ██ █████ ████████ ███████████ █████████ ██████ ███████████ ███████ ███████████

I've met some of the people I've been assigned to. Haven't decided what to think of most of them. Rapp seems a man I can put my back too, even if he is a bit dense on the wolfman angle--I suspect that'll change shortly. Mrs. Sienko (who's name makes me wonder if she married a Jap) was a pilot before getting sucked into the Corps. No idea how she managed that, but that alone makes her a force to be reckoned with in my book. And Foley... seems a man who's resigned himself to a lot of things in life, this new assignment being only the most recent.

Hell. I wonder if they sell Chesterfields in England.

It’s possible I said something I shouldn’t have to Dr. Danielewski. Two hours ago, one of the colonel’s staff flunkies handed me a telegraph. I’ve been reassigned to another division, something I’ve never heard of. The 55^th. No reason why, no description of my new position, just orders to be on the tarmac an hour from now for my flight to the UK. Coming two days after my last psych evaluation, I doubt it’s coincidence. That four-eyed malcontent has been trying to get me discharged since the first time I sat on his couch and called him a fraud. “Tell me how you feel, and be honest,” he said, but in retrospect I don’t think he really meant it.

I’m not sure what it is I said that finally gave him the leverage to get rid of me. Since our first encounter, I’ve tried not to give him more ammunition, but Danielewski always did have a knack for making the most innocent comments sound profane. Tell him, “I like carrots,” and he’ll tell your commanding officer you have penis envy. But of course, I’m not really being honest here. I know full well what it is that I shouldn’t have confessed.

No matter. No sense fretting over what’s done. My bags are packed. I’ve never been to England before. I hear the weather’s awful, but at least the people “speak American.” I mailed one last postcard home. I didn’t know what to write. I never know what to write. Nothing about my new assignment, of course. Nothing about my old assignment, for that matter. I wrote, “I love you.” I wrote, “I miss you.” I wrote, “I am happy.” Two out of three lies, I actually felt bad about. That’s one little insight I won't have to worry about hiding from Danielewski.