Dear Non-Flea-Ridden Douchebags,

Okay, so maybe most werewolves in fiction history have been portrayed as badasses. Regardless, there are still a few things I need to get off my mangy chest, things which bother me. And no, I’m not talking about dog whistles or sweaty ass-cracks, though both of those do indeed annoy me. (Especially the sweaty ass-cracks. Come on—No beast wants to shove their snout into something that reeks of unwashed skin folds and feces. Shower at least once a day, you rancid fuck!)

I was chatting with my vampire buddy the other day, the one who wrote a letter to you pathetic humans back in 2013, and we agreed the whole “werewolf versus vampire” fantasy is played out. Why would we hate such kindred spirits? Why would we naturally be opposed? We’re both children of the night. We both have fangs and claws and yearn for blood as much as any other feral creature. And our built-in weaponry does no more harm to each other than any other weapon, so let’s dispel that little fiction trope while we’re at it.

We would much rather surround ourselves by like-minded and similarly abled creatures than ever associate with our weaker counterparts. So stop pitting us against each other. We work hand in paw, and we always have. (Aside from that squabble at our annual Howloween celebration a few millennia ago. That got uglier than a Pug.)

Let me also dispel all the rumors of werewolf weaknesses.  Silver? Silver is silver. It’s cheaper than gold or platinum, so stick with it if you’re a fucking tightwad. But it otherwise holds no sway over injuries inflicted upon me. It is not my Kryptonite. It will not weaken me any more than a steel blade. You’d be better off wielding a fucking banana.

And wolfsbane? Puh-lease. It’s essentially catnip to us. If I ever shrink away in fear when a plant is thrust at me, just put me out of my pussified misery. Or better yet, cast me in the next Twilight-esque movie. I’d like to go out with a modicum of dignity.

Speaking of Twilight, what was up with the werewolves turning into wolves? That’s been a recurring idea in the past, though it’s false. Why reduce us to salivating two-foot-tall hounds? Seems like wishful thinking. We are humans-turned-humanoid-beasts. Reality is far scarier than a wild, mangy mutt.

Oh, and stop with the “full moon” bullshit. Moonlight, period, causes our transformation. A sliver of moonlight. A quarter moon.  Hell, you wanna see me at my most feral? Catch me on the night of a blood moon. (Or should I say I’ll catch you?)

This gift is not a virus, not hereditary, not a curse. It’s a birthright. A blessing. You will never find me lamenting my poor luck in being bitten. You will never find me howling sorrowfully at the moon, wishing I could rip my fur off and be solely human once more. You will never find me seeking the alpha to break the cycle. The cycle cannot be broken. And, contrary to popular belief, we do not want to break it.

We relish it.

One last thing: After my transformation, there is no reasoning with me. No petting. No lingering love to break the spell of bloodlust. And no remorse for my actions. This darkness festers and swells and cannot—should not—be ignored. So the next time you think “talking me down” while I’m in my beast form is the way to go, understand rationality scatters after the beast takes the reins.

I’ve killed many brothers and parents and sisters and wives and lovers, and I have shed no tears.

Approach at your own risk.

Never Yours,

Luke Antrupee