Current location: | London |
Current mood: | freaked |
7th June, 1944 (Later)
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.
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