The Hoodle, A WerewolfConfession

By A J Burton

What happens when you become a werewolf before you lose your virginity?
Be suave, be swashbuckling, be anything – but a home-schooled mummy's boy.
Follow Jake Fangle as he attempts to outwit, identify and destroy his deadly foe: The Dog No One Speaks About and seduce a woman – any woman.
Helped by Hemi Takitimu, professional werewolf hunter and warrior; Teen werewolf groupies the WWWC; Mavis Bedletter the librarian, sensual Simone, gorgeous Gaynor and three loyal dogs; Jake must deal to an ancient homicidal werewolf or die a virgin.
“Werewolves and poodles and talking teddy bears, oh my! The Hoodle is a cheeky commentary on small town New Zealand life as told by Jake Fangle, a reluctant hero with the mission to end all missions: to lose his virginity—preferably before he’s killed by the most terrifying and vicious werewolf of all. Warning: be prepared to laugh out loud and spit your coffee! This one’s NSFW (Not Safe For Work) in the best way.” ~ Maree Anderson https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/292143

• Language: English
• Publisher: Quintessence Publications Ltd
• Release date: Jul 10, 2015
• ISBN: 9781311210128

A J Burton

I am a retired policeman, harness horse trainer, gibstopper and small block farmer. I have loved reading since I can remember. I have owned horses, dogs, and cats since I was twelve years old. I enjoyed the bush, surfing, snorkling, rugby, and judo and now in my retirement fishing on the family boat with friends and family.I am married with four boys and one gorgeous grand-daughter.Over the years I have written many short stories and a couple of novels without any serious thoughts of publishing them. A few years ago I decided I would write a novel with a view to having it published. Demon's Coven looked like it was going to become so large I decided to make it into a Trilogy. Demon's Coven is my first novel Check it out here and let me know what you think of it.Any feedback would be appreciated.All my work has been professionally edited. You will be getting a quality book which is worth your time and money.

Book preview

Chapter 1

Sometime after midnight tonight, I need to grow a pair. I must become a Gladiator, a Jedi Knight and Batman, all rolled into one. The Lycanthrope we face is immortal or even older. He is cunning, immensely strong and so, so deadly.

Lycanthrope. Sounds like some sort of parasitic tapeworm, doesn’t it? According to folklore, it is the correct terminology for a werewolf.

My name is Jake Fangle and I’m twenty three years old. Somewhere inside me there lurks a hero. Maybe he could cease lurking for just one night. Tonight.

I swear upon my mother’s gin soaked corpse this story is completely true. Sorry mum, I didn’t really mean that. Guess there are some residual feelings which I haven’t dealt with yet.

This brief account is a confession of my failings, so you will understand what I have gone through and won’t judge me too harshly whatever the outcome. So here we go; I’ll try to be honest. There is no point in lying about where this all took place, except about the country, the town and the people in it. Remember this is the whole truth and nothing but the truth, except for the parts which are a complete and utter fabrication.

I’m no writer, I get things in the wrong order sometimes; say the wrong word, put it in the wrong context. This syndrome is real and is referred to as a malapropism or bushism, so it’s not all my fault. If you are a grammar Nazi now is the time to put down your marker pen, take off your jackboots and accept that even those of us with the grammar retard gene have a right to tell our stories.

My mother didn’t trust the New Zealand Education Department so she home schooled her only child. No blackboard and chalk for me, instead she put her faith in a bottle of gin and a carpet slipper. Sometimes mum rang the school bell for assembly at three in the morning. Try to remember your fourteen times tables then, I dare you.

Many a lesson ended in a thump as mum hit the floor after a few lunch break gins. So I’m afraid my education is somewhat lacking. I learned exclusively from my mother's lessons until I was nearly sixteen. Mum spoke correctly, no bad language ever. She taught me the difference between nouns and verbs but her alcohol intake often dictated the standard of the lesson. Mum was the only person I have met who could fall off the floor.

My education was cultured but random and inconsistent. I can mix a mean gin and tonic, a mickey slim or gin bucket and by thirteen I had perfected the fireman’s lift to carry mum upstairs. I used big words mum found in the Oxford Dictionary even though I didn’t know what they meant.

I knew the Beatles were a band with questionable morals and The Rolling Stones were totally overrated. Rock Hudson was the most macho male actor who ever lived and marijuana was the devil's concoction. I never had any friends my own age, ever. Not real ones anyway.

By the time I was fifteen kids my own age thought I was strange, even weird. They said ‘You speak like my parents.’ I was shunned, laughed at. I was called a retard and a moron. Kids would tell me to ‘leave now,’ using unmentionable words. Now I realize I was living in a time warp. I was a middle aged ignoramus living in the body of a child.

Mum left me the house when she died, so I do okay. I’m single so I don’t need to earn much to make ends meet. I never knew my father. According to my mother he was a lazy, thick-headed arsehole; hopeless with money and he didn’t have a romantic bone in his body. I often wonder under what gin soaked circumstances they managed to conceive me.

But to get back to the present, the past 28 days have dictated that tonight my friends and I stand and fight. My survival depends on confronting and vanquishing a beast who intends to devour me. The werewolf will never give up until I am deceased, departed or even dead.

Thank goodness I won’t have to face The Dog No One Ever Speaks About alone. But what chance do two cowardly dogs, a brave but clumsy idiot, the WWWC, and a Hoodle have to destroy a real Lycanthrope?

Unless we can kill this hideous beast there is no hope for us. One by one he will track us down, each of our deaths will be too horrible to contemplate. My friends are precious to me and I don’t want any of them to die. Sometimes, to my shame, I thought if the idiot got it, I could live with that. But even after all his screw-ups and the systematic destruction of my home I wouldn’t wish that on him.

Should I fail, I shall be torn apart, ripped to pieces, eaten and once you are dead, brother, life ain’t worth living. In the unlikely event I shall be the victor I’ll become the local werewolf, so I must keep the real location of where this is all happening a secret.

My home town could be a sleepy village in Hertfordshire, England, or an out the way town in the mid-west of the America’s or in the village of Sanyo in Japan. Or maybe it’s a country town called Wekawaka in the Wairarapa district of New Zealand. Wekawaka is situated off State Highway Two but it also could be off Route 66 in California or the M1 motorway in England, or even the Hitachi yellow brick road in Japan.

It is a sleepy town with street lighting and shady trees lining the sidewalks. Generally everyone knows everyone else and their business. Think of Wekawaka as your everyday imaginary country town. Wekawaka’s only distinction is that with alarming regularity tourists and trampers disappear in the rugged bush covered hills beyond the town. The rumour is that there is a sort of Bermuda Triangle effect going on and the local constable always seems to be looking for someone. It didn’t bother us locals much; if the dopey tourists were too stupid to use a local guide that was their problem. One out-of-towner, an Australian no less, once said.

If New Zealand was a constipated person you would insert the enema hose up the main street of Wekawaka to give him relief. It’s a pity he never went missing.

We have a post office, a main street with hardware store, supermarket, garages, assorted small shops, cafes and two burger bars, one at either end of the town. There is one police constable, or sheriff, or ninja, or whatever they call cops in Japan. I shall refer to him as Constable Knowsley.

Knowsley considers himself a talented super-cop with a one hundred percent clearance of burglaries. Knowsley’s crime busting abilities must be taken with a grain of salt. We only had two burglaries in town last year, and the criminal for both occasions turned out to be the constable’s twelve year old son Sheldon.

Whenever our policeman spoke to you it was usually to ask, Have you seen this person? and you would be shown a picture of a tourist standing smiling beside a hired camper van. Funny thing was, he never seemed to find any of the missing persons, not that we heard about anyway. Once you disappear in the Wekawaka triangle you never return.

Chapter 2

Ken Wilson my middle-aged neighbour across the street was a keen tramper. He owned a miniature poodle, Yancy-boy was his name. I would tease him with tiny sticks and call him Nancy-boy, but he never got the joke. Why Ken would want a tramping companion who was no bigger than an obese albino rat, totally escapes me. Yancy-boy wouldn’t have been useful as a hunting dog and was about as scary as a brightly coloured tea-cosy. I suppose he was kind of cute. He’d see you coming and yap around your heels like a wind up squeaky toy.

On Sunday night almost a month ago I heard a scratching sound at my front door just as I was about to go to bed. It was one of those warm moonlit summer nights when it’s almost too hot to sleep. The noise began as a light scratching, like the crinkling of a potato chip packet against the wooden door, nothing more. A small thump made the door rattle as if a clump of earth had been thrown against it. I thought it might be kids playing tricks and the noise annoyed me enough to want to know what it was. I turned on the outside light and opened the door.

Sitting on the front porch was Yancy-boy; looking like he had consumed a thimble full of Jack Daniels and boy, was he spoiling for a fight. He looked up at me with a snarl that was about as frightening as a batch of custard squares. Yancy-boy turned up his lips showing his teeth, no doubt with the intention of scaring me half to death but instead I felt sorry for the little guy.

What’s wrong, little fella? You lost? I squatted down on my haunches and held out my hand. Like a white curly brillo pad with tiny fangs, Yancy-boy charged. He rushed at me like he meant to rip out my throat.

Oww. I felt a sharp pin prick of pain as Yancy-boy bit my kneecap. He flipped over backwards from the impact, collapsed on his back with all his feet in the air and began to twitch in a spastic fit. Woops, you don’t look so good, I thought, reaching out to touch him. His curly haired little body felt soft and warm but he didn’t respond. I noticed there was foam at the corners of his mouth and he looked kind of - wolfish. Yancy-boy’s fangs looked like someone had inserted an oversized set of novelty vampire teeth in his mouth. I noticed blood on my knee.

Oh no. The little bastard’s teeth had broken my skin. Don’t panic Jake; there is a drop of blood about as large as a blowfly’s testicle on the point of your knee. How bad can that be? I asked myself aloud. I couldn’t say the same about poor old Yancy-boy, who continued to convulse and shake. I began to panic.

Oh my God. Yancy-boy might have rabies. Bugger, I’ve been bitten by a rabid, miniature poodle. What should I do? Yancy gave a gurgle and lay quietly shaking with little tremors. I wiped the small drop of blood off my knee and examined my knee cap. Heck it was fine, there wasn’t a microbe or orgasm in the world small enough to pass through such a tiny prick. Yancy-boy stopped shaking, he looked almost normal again.

Peaceful, as if he was smiling. I picked him up but Yancy was dead. Not moving or breathing dead, as dead as you can get when not alive dead. I didn’t know what to think. How could he have died? Maybe he’d crushed his skull when he rammed my knee? I do have unusually hard knees. My heart began to race. What should I do? The town was quiet, nothing stirred under the moonlight. I’ll bury him in the back yard, no one will ever know. Yancy-boy’s small body flopped about in my nervous hands like a fluffy rag doll. I felt sorry for him; he was such a sweet looking little guy.

I’ll bury you near mum’s roses. Mum won’t mind. My hands shaking, I scooped a hole with a garden trowel careful to avoid damaging the roses. His body looked so forlorn and lost, the tears flowed down my face and my nose dripped. It was then I noticed dried blood caked on his fur from a small wound on one of his back legs. He had been bitten - but by what?

I am sorry little fella I really am. I croaked, as I covered his body over with dirt and leaf mould. Right at that particular moment I felt bad, real bad. Not so much because I’d killed Yancy-boy - something else was upsetting me. I felt an awful itching feeling in my throat and I had a compulsive urge to pee.

On Yancy-boy. Peeing on a wee dog you have just killed seemed a sick thing to do but it helped. I felt so much better. So much so, I emptied my whole bladder over his grave; which washed all the dirt off so I had to rebury him, deeper this time. That’s odd, I thought, my bladder seems to have developed double its usual capacity.

I needed a drink. This was crazy, but the thought of drinking water and of having a full bladder excited me. It was weird. Luckily there was plenty of water in the cat’s bowl on the front porch. Lapping furiously I drank it all. Fluffy the cat was nowhere to be seen. What’s so special about cats anyway? What have they ever done for us? I felt emotional, I’d just killed a wee dog - Jake Fangle - thanks to your hard kneecaps you are responsible for the death of Mr Wilson’s toy poodle. Head bowed I went inside and crept upstairs to bed.

Grizz, my only friend in the world, was sitting on the foot of the bed. He looked at me with his single button eye as if to say Jake, you look wimpier than usual, mummies boy, what’s up? Grizz isn’t actually a grizzly bear he’s a large teddy bear I was given for my third birthday but he’s fierce looking - especially with his pirate eye patch. I talk to Grizz and he talks to me. That’s just the way we are.

Yancy-boy bit me on my knee and he died.

A dog wouldn’t die from biting you on the knee Jake, are you sure he didn’t have some disgusting disease like rabies?

I hope not, cause my kneecap bled a bit.

Show me.

There - right on the point of my knee.

I don’t see anything Jake. You’re such a momma’s boy.

Well it was only a small bite. I buried him in the rose garden.

Alright let’s go to sleep. No snoring tonight?

Ok Grizz, I promise. I got into my pyjamas and sat on the bed.

Grizz?

Yes Jake.

I didn’t mean to kill Yancy-boy, you know. I have hard knees.

Life’s tough Jake, you gotta roll with the punches sometimes. More importantly you have a job interview tomorrow. And you still haven’t nailed Gaynor. You’re twenty three for goodness sake and you’re still a virgin.

Every time I go to say something to Gaynor I get all tongue tied, Grizz.

"Well remember what you promised me, that you will be a real man by the end of this summer."

Alright I’ll try, goodnight Grizz.

After a while my body started to feel better. Just before I fell asleep I realised that lying in a ball at the end of the bed was really quite a comfortable way to sleep.

My sleep was interlaced with dreams of Yancy-boy who had come back to life and was lying beside me with a sad expression on his face. He wouldn’t leave when I barked so I peed on him to make him go away. This is my bed.

That’s when I woke and found someone had wet the bed and I was the obvious suspect. Yes, long ago bed wetting had been a problem but this was the first time I’d wet the bed for years. I’m not sure if telling you I’m a virgin and a bed wetter is all that good for the soul. They say telling the truth will set you free. Depends on what sort of freedom you want and the kind of truths you tell I suppose. I feel embarrassed but I’m determined to be honest. Grizz was still asleep; just as well. He sometimes says horrible things to me when I wet the bed. I put a pillow case over his head and put him in the wardrobe.

I undressed, changed the sheets, put the wet ones with my pyjamas in the washing machine and turned it on. Mum taught me having a clean kennel was important. While passing the hallway mirror I felt a really strange sensation. I examined my naked body; it was as puny and disappointing as ever. I couldn’t throw off the feeling Yancy-boy was behind me somewhere - following me. But that couldn’t be, he was dead and buried in the rose garden. The feeling wouldn’t go away. It was creepy. My whole body tingled and I had the strangest desire to run outside in the moonlight.

The new bed sheets felt nice and cool against my skin. I wondered if it was possible to curl up in a ball tight enough to smell under my tail if I wanted to.

Why would a person want to do something like that? I tried anyway. It wasn’t as hard as I thought it might be. Finally sleep arrived like a welcoming old blanket.

Chapter 3

I woke up at sunrise. Instead of rolling over and going back to sleep I sat up. Something curious had happened, I could smell the morning. All kinds of smells swirled about in my mind telling me things I didn’t know before. Someone was cooking bacon and eggs. During the night two cats had been doing something nasty outside my bedroom window.

I got out of bed and opened the window. Below on the footpath the postie waddled by. Something assailed my nostrils. She was suffering from some sort of sweat gland problem in her groin. Even the cream she had applied failed to disguise the smell. As she disappeared up the street she took her bad smell with her. I leaned out the window and took a tentative sniff. The soft morning breeze blew my hair back. I smelt flowers, trees, grass, cooking smells. It was wonderful; I wagged my bottom with excitement. The world was teeming with wonderful strange delights. I felt so alive.

I sprinted down the stairs and out the back door. Did I feel good or what? My legs felt so strong I ran around the house several times until the urgent need to take a pee took over. Choices, choices, I couldn’t remember the last time I’d peed against a tree. Delighted at the satisfaction it gave me I peed on my elm tree and the roses. Yancy-boy would understand.

This was the start of a squirt rampage, no tree, shrub or bush was safe. I did some trick peeing; pirouettes, half turns with a double squirt. It was like writing poetry or a dance celebrating the simplest joys in life. All I needed was some music to pee to and I’d have been in heaven.

What was I thinking? I stopped in mid-squirt - realised I was naked, peeing on an oak tree in my neighbours’ yard. I glanced around in a panic, who had seen me? I ran back inside, tail between my legs, heart racing. Everything was a blur as I ran helter-skelter through the house, up the stairs, down the stairs, looking for shelter. I scrambled into the kitchen, feet skittering on the lino and skidded under the dining table.

Surely no-one would find me there? I lay chewing on an old sock for comfort while I thought things through. Old socks aren’t all that bad, if you chew them well. That’s before you eat the heels out of them, it’s the best part of the sock. My alarm clock went off upstairs. Jeez. It was time to get moving.

Ow. My head struck the table as I jumped to my feet. I had a job interview today for the supervisor’s role. I ran upstairs to my bedroom and yelled at the alarm clock.

Shut up. Shut up. Shut up. Then I turned it off. My brown trousers smelled fashionable and the old hand knitted cotton sweater felt great against my skin. I smelled all my shoes and chose the smelliest to wear to work. They might be satisfying to chew on at lunchtime. Now where did I put my car keys and wallet? I knew something was different about me but I didn’t care. I indulged in the simple joys of being happy; something I hadn’t felt for ages.

I didn’t want to be late so a quick breakfast was in order. I looked everywhere in the pantry for some dog biscuits but could only find cat food. Things would have to change around here, this wasn’t cat central, Fluffy would have to adapt to the new me. Dogs rule. Cats drool. Perhaps I should get a dog? Some boiled eggs and a saucer of milk did the trick.

As soon as I went outside, the urge to pee returned. I ran around to the back yard and peed on the floor of the garden shed where Fluffy slept. I saved enough pee for the front tyres of my Ford and a quick squirt over Yancy-boy again. Saving up pee was more fun than I’d thought. What would it be like having a bladder as big as a hot water cylinder? Nah that wouldn’t work, I’d have to settle for something as big as a hot water bottle.

As I drove down the street my mind was somewhere between scared and excited. I don’t usually speed but it felt good driving fast. I lowered the driver’s window.

Hello Mrs Stewart, big legs, round bum. Mrs Stewart turned with a surprised look on her face; well- more horrified really. Her one fingered wave didn’t seem that friendly. I passed a group of children walking to school.

Gidday. Gidday. Gidday. I yelled out the window. The children waved and shouted back.

Wanker. Wanker. Wanker. Driving with my head out of the window wasn’t easy and my lips vibrated in the wind. Maybe I should buy a convertible sports car so I could smell the world? Smells of tyres, tar, paint, cheap plastic and vinyl told me even if I closed my eyes I would still know exactly where I was - driving in my Ford.

Beep! Beep! I opened my eyes - Help! I was heading straight towards an oncoming car. I swerved back onto my side of the road. Ok - closing eyes while driving is a bad idea. My heart pounded in my chest. But I wasn’t scared. I was actually excited by the danger, stimulated. What the hell was going on? What was so different about today? I was alive that’s what.

Perhaps, somehow magically overnight I had matured. Maybe today for the first time I was a real man instead of an overgrown teenager? I got some funny looks and gave some funnier looks back. Sometimes you just gotta bark, or say something to the world.

A small flat deck pickup pulled up beside me at the town’s only traffic lights. That one set of traffic lights is always red for me, so I stop there even when it’s green as I’m quite often on autopilot. A black Labrador stood on the deck, chained to the back of the cab.

What are you looking at? The Labrador asked.

Nothing, smell my arse.

Maybe later, he said, wagging his tail. I’m going to the vets to get fixed up, whatever that means. I didn’t have the heart to tell him what that meant.

Ok, smell ya later. As the lights changed I dropped the clutch and smoked the tyres. Poor bastard, I thought. Wonder if his arse will smell different without his balls. Bloody hell, what am I thinking? I haven’t even smelled my own arse yet. But I was running late, there would be time for that later.

My job is flipping burgers at Big Jim’s Jumbo Burgers and Fries, a local franchise. Big Jim’s was a fast food crap-hole really. Bad mince, stale buns, nothing was fresh and the wages were rubbish. Think of an old Daihatsu sedan, underpowered, belching smoke from a clapped out engine, so much rust it looked like it had the pox. Well, Big Jim’s made that Daihatsu look good. Wekawaka citizens who liked appalling food were our kind of customers and we never disappointed them. Except for the French fries which are quite good, I’ve eaten them twice.

Today I was really looking forward to being there. I smelled Big Jim’s before I could see it. That was weird but wonderful. Is there anything to beat the smell of mince in the morning? Or road kill for that matter? There were two cars in the car park when I arrived. The smell of mince hit me like a brick across the face. I got out, locked my car and sniffed the driver’s side front tyre of one of the cars. Someone was in heat somewhere. I got an erection immediately, but thinking about the Labrador at the lights spoiled it. Yahoo. Smells were coming from all directions.

I bounded inside and changed into my uniform. I sang the words to a song I’d just made up.

"Meat, meat, glorious meat.

Pork, steak, sausages and some sheep,

Raw, stewed, sautéed or minced.

I just want to eat meat, wonderful meat.

Shinbones, breast bones, ribs and hocks.

Beats the taste of smelly socks.

Meat, meat, glorious meat.

Pork, steak, sausages and some sheep,

Don’t need vegetables, red or green

Just give me meat. Fatty or lean."

Gaynor Trainer was getting the meat out of the freezer. Bitch! I wanted to do that. Still, it was always nice to see her and today she smelt wonderfully different. Would she object to me licking her face?

Hi Jake, you seem happy this morning. What’s that tune you’re singing, is it a new rap?

Um, no, just something I heard on the radio. I lied.

You’re different this morning - you haven’t been drinking, have you?

No, well - maybe - just from the cat’s dish.

Cat’s dish?

She drinks from a cup and sometimes I get hers mixed up with mine. That was two lies. My mother’s voice echoed in my head. ’Liar, liar, Jake’s on fire, straight to hell and there expire.’ I hated that nursery rhyme. Who would write such a thing for kids to hear?

You are strange Jake Fangle, cute but strange. There was a pause, Gaynor was waiting for a reply but I got the usual case of flapping lip syndrome. My mouth worked, it opened and closed but no sounds came out. I looked and sounded like an idiot. Gaynor shrugged and walked to the staffroom to make her early morning coffee. The moment was lost along with thousands of similar moments.

There was something about her that always appealed to me but I was too shy to ask her out. Gaynor was two years younger and had emerged from her acne years in good shape. Her skin was velvety with a soft peach fur on her cheeks. She kept her long blonde hair in a bun so it didn’t fall in the chip fat. I desperately wanted to smell the nape of her neck and especially under her tail but comforted myself by scratching behind an ear with a front paw.

Something Gaynor had said hit me like a flurry of flea powder. The whole morning I’d had a nagging suspicion that something was different, not quite right. The truth was I’d been thinking and acting like a dog. My God! I might have even talked to a dog about the vet. I rushed into the bathroom to look in the mirror. Phew. I was ok. I looked normal – like myself. Although my hair looked a lot curlier; not unlike Barbie doll curls. No, I ran my fingers through them, more like super tight curls in fact - more like a - like Yancy-boy’s curly fur.

Cripes. Have I been infected with some sort of poodle virus? Wait a minute, that’s ridiculous. I started laughing, it was ridiculous. Maybe I had a fever, or a virus, but an ordinary virus, surely? Could it be Poodle-itis? Don’t be silly Jake. I shook my finger at myself in the mirror, just like mum would. But - why am I having these weird feelings and desires? The smelling, peeing, scratching and yelping kind. What could explain that?

I walked into a cubicle and sat down on the toilet. I took off my right shoe; it felt comforting in my mouth. Why is it comforting to chew my shoe? Why didn’t I think of it before? Yes now I remember, I’d already tried it at home. Holy crap what am I doing? Mmm, the back of the heel was best, nice and soft.

Now I understand why woman buy so many new pairs of shoes. They secretly chew the heels out; there couldn’t be any other explanation for their universal obsession. Women must have stronger jaws as they use them so much more than men. Women say a hundred words where a man only needed a simple Yes mum. Could this poodle virus have an upside? What if it could help me begin to understand women?

Knowledge is power. I felt myself all over to see if everything was normal. Everything checked out. It was a relief to find out there was nothing wrong with me. I put my shoe on again and stood on my hind legs.

"My name is Jake Fangle. I am a human, not a dog." I whispered to myself. I opened the cubicle door and peered into the mirror again. Maybe my hair was a little curly but definitely not as curly as a poodle’s. Relief flooded through me. I smiled into the mirror, took out a folding brush and brushed my hair. It was nice to have my hair brushed. I whined and panted a little so I’d keep brushing. It