Had a dream last night that I was a weretiger. Would have been cooler if, in this particular dream milieu, were-critters were not second-class white-trash citizens assembled in the basement by a combination of genetic engineering and necromancy, out’ve roadkilled possums. (There was a peculiar invocation that included a nod to the spirit of “Isza the Possum Goddess,” which is interesting only because I never considered that possums might have gods. They just don’t seem like the type.) Hooked up with a werewolf at the were-unemployment office. Nice guy, but also ravingly schizophrenic. His family kept him heavily medicated and asked me to make sure hoodlums didn’t beat him up, which was sort’ve sad, since he was eight feet tall with the usual assemblage of giant fangs and hair. I only remember a couple bits vividly, one of which was sitting around eating pitas filled with what I think was dog kibble, and the other of which was waking up in an outside parking lot, in the nude, to discover a bunch of birds sitting on the edge of the roof watching me–kingfishers, bright green mot-mot things, giant bluejays, whatever. I went scrambling around for my camera–don’t ask why a naked weretiger has a camera handy, I’m just gonna assume it was a werecamera.
The other good bit came slightly later, and was so good that I woke up, grabbed James’s shoulder and said “That’s it! That’s so great!”
“Huhng?” he said.
“Bob’s Discount Walrus Lot!”
“Discount Walrus…” he said sagely, and fell back asleep.
For all your used walrus needs.
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