“I hate it you know."

“No, I don't know. I just met you, but do go and tell me all about it."

The bartender was feeling a little more charitable than normal, seeing as the place was quiet. In fact, at the moment there was only one customer in the place and he was sitting right in front of him. The man had a pleasant enough face framed with shaggy, slightly unkempt, grayish brown hair and a disposition of wanting to both cry and jump with joy.

Overall it was an odd mix. To be polite he turned off the television and turned his attention to the newcomer. The news was the same old crap anyways; murder, theft, feral dogs, car accidents. It was all so damn tiresome.

“Oh sorry. I suppose you don't. It's a little difficult to explain." He stopped for a moment and scratched at his chin, his whole body shaking with that movement, right down to the barstool upon which he was perched. The man on the other side of the bar half expected to see bugs coming loose.

“It's weird being like this."

The bartender shrugged. “Like what?"

“LIKE THIS!" he growled, indicating the entirety of his being. “I don't know how you can live like this."

“Excuse me? Like how?"

“Oh, you know."

The barkeep gave up. He didn't know a thing about this guy and he didn't want to know much more than that. Customers, especially new ones like this guy could give you the creeps with their goofy life stories.

“Yeah sure; life is rough all over."

“Rough?" he growled back at me. “You trying to be a funny man."

“No. Just trying to be sympathetic."

His frown faded. “Oh, that's alright then," he said rocking side to side on his bar stool.

I groaned inwardly. This guy had the mercurial mood swings of an adolescent girl.

“So what's the deal then? Don't tell me – you're down on your luck and just waiting to make it big."

“Big? No. I just want to be my old self again."

“This isn't you?"

“Not really. I mean, yeah it's me, but not me."

“Well, that clears the whole thing up."

“I think you're just being mean." His eyes seemed to droop, going so far as to take his ears a bit farther south.

“Dude! I honestly have no idea what you're babbling about."

“I suppose – I suppose you don't. You see sometimes I'm me and sometimes I'm - I'm this. It all depends on the time of day."

“Oh, a Cinderella story is it?"

“Who?"

“Never mind. I guess you're a bit like my wife."

“Really? What does she turn into?"

“Seriously? Some days she can turn into a real bitch."

“And others?"

“Really? You can ask that? On others she can be the sweetest little lady there is."

“Hmmm. Best of both worlds then. I think I understand. It all depends on the time of…"

The bartender cut him off in mid sentence. “…of the month. All women are like that."

“Monthly changes? She's lucky then."

“Lucky?"

“Sure. They could be daily."

“Yeah, I guess that would be worse."

This guy wasn't wrong, but I didn't like discussing religion or politics over the bar. And I was now seriously considering the addition of bodily functions to my banned list.

“So? Do you have a name?"

“Yes I do," he answered proudly.

“Which is what?"

“Max."

“Good to know you Max. My name is Peter."

“Peter. Nice name. I wish I was called something different."

“You don't like your name?"

“It's alright. I wish I could have picked something different."

“Funny how that works. Someone always picks your name for you."

“So you say. There are so many choices to choose from."

“Well, if you put it that way, why don't you just have it changed?"

"You can do that?"

“Sure, there are channels you can use. Or hell, just do like most people and adopt a nickname."

“Nick-name?"

“You know, something people call you. Like a pet name or something. People call me Lefty for example."

“Why?"

“Because I dance like I have two left feet."

“Oh. That's a mean name then."

“Not really - it's all meant in jest."

“Just what?"

“Not just - jest. In fun."

“Oh."

“So what do you want to be called?"

“I don't know really. I like Deathmonger or maybe Feralface."

The man named Peter raised his eyebrows. Here he had a definite winner; one of those thrashing, metal band head bangers. “I was thinking maybe something a little less inflammatory like Bubba or Rocky."

He considered for a moment. “Bubba sounds like what a kid would name a stupid little whimpering puppy. Dumb name. Rocky sounds alright though."

“Well, to be honest I think I'd rather call you Max than Rocky."

“Really? Then maybe I'll just keep it."

The barkeep had a few names for him and none of them were very nice. He wisely kept them to himself. He decided to change the subject and see if he could find some other form of conversation that might prove more productive.

“So, when did your problems first start?"

“What? Oh. Hmmmm. I think it was when I first got bit."

I shuddered. Now I was seeing this guy having all kinds of creepy diseases.

“By a mosquito?"

“No."

“A spider?"

“Yech - no."

“A tick?"

“Ugh. I hate ticks!"

I could see where this might take all evening and I didn't have that kind of patience.

“OK, so you got bit and then you got sick?"

“Yeah, sick."

“I can relate to that. I just got over the flu myself. I was as sick as a dog."

“As a dog eh? Maybe what I have is contagious."

“I hope not." Then I paused. “What do you have? Rabies?"

Just then another customer came in, followed by a few more. It was going to be getting busy soon. I held up a hand, asked him what he wanted to drink before I went to tend to the new arrivals.

“Water I think will do me for now. Anything stronger will have to wait."

Strange request from a guy sitting on a barstool, talking to the bartender across the rather shiningly clean bar lined with beer taps. If he had only wanted water he could have gone across the street to the diner.

I gave him his water, but I kept a close eye on him as I worked up and down the line. There was something creepy about this guy that I couldn't quite place my finger on. He was nice enough, but there was a side to him that just didn't match his looks.

As he sat there twirling a finger in the glass, he would occasionally stop to scratch at this or that body part. I was figuring the poor sap was a homeless guy and I therefore thinking that I might have to have the bar bombed for bugs. I hadn't gotten close enough to him to notice if he had lice (which I had not mentioned during the question and answer session) but if I saw anything crawling around on the floor I was booting everyone out, even him.

Especially him. I didn't need his sort in here. I doubt he even had money.

I hit him up a little while later and asked if he was ready for a real drink this time.

“It is getting late now and the alcohol does take the edge off. So yeah, give me something strong."

He reached for his pocket. If he did have cash, it was likely to be rather dirty. I wasn't sure I wanted it in the till, considering where it might have been.

“On the house," I said as I measured him out a double shot of whiskey. I watched him as he poured it back and swallowed it in one pull. That was a pretty damn good trick!

He licked his lips and shuddered. “Thanks - that should do the trick."

“Do the trick for what?"

“I told you it was getting late. I think it's time to be my old self again."

“I see. So you're normally drunk?"

“No!"

“Then what?" I was feeling a little frustrated by now. This guy was weird and there were no ifs, ands, or buts about it. Then a stupid, sly thought came into my head.

“I got it! Do you turn into a werewolf?"

“Were-wolf?"

“You know; a guy how turns into a half man/half beast at night."

“That sounds a little improbable"

So, he wasn't totally crazy. That was all for the good.

After a while later I saw him get up and stand a little unsteadily, wobbling like he needed another set of legs. That whiskey must have hit him harder than he had expected. He lurched for a moment, spied what he was looking for and made for the men's room. The door slammed open and he disappeared behind it as it closed.

But just before he did, he turned and caught my eye, which was already fixed upon him.

“Human."

“What?"

“Human. That's what I was bitten by."

That left me thinking. They say the human mouth is full of nasty things, but drinking had to help to sterilize your tongue and all that surrounds it. But who knows what evil dwelt in some men's dental work? I was mulling this over before I realized two things. The first was that this guy was crazy and thinking about it was making me equal to him in mental status. I had work to do and it wasn't getting done with me contemplating matters that shouldn't command the usage of a single brain cell.

The other matter was the fact that he hadn't yet vacated the bathroom. True, he hadn't used it all night, but then he hadn't really drank anything either. So I watched with intense curiosity when the next customer stumbled to the john to empty his bladder to make room for more beer.

The second his hand hit the handle the door burst outwards, knocking him flat on his back. He let out an oath which stopped dead in his throat. Out came trotting the biggest, darkest, meanest looking canine you could imagine. It was shaggy, it was tall, it was leggy and only later did someone tell me they thought it was an Irish wolfhound. Hell if I know. I'm never owning a dog again in my life.

Ever.

The damn thing looked to the bar, spotted me and trotted over - a little unsteadily - and set its chin on the wood. I could see something in its mouth, but I hardly wanted to get a closer look. It opened those gapingly huge jaws and let the thing slip out, where it rolled a few inches before stopping. It was a rolled of dark green.

Bills.

Money.

Moolah.

I had to do a double take to make sure this wasn't a prank.

“Covering you tab?"

I was answered with a growl.

“There was no need you know. Would you like me to get the door for you?"

Another growl.

I jumped the bar and walked as swiftly as I could without looking like I was in a panic. I opened it up wide and pressed myself flush against it as the powerful shape slipped by me into the night. I saw only a glimpse or two as he melded into the darkness. I heard a few yelps and a few people ran past the door, but soon all was quiet.

Then the sirens began.

I didn't see a damn thing.

I still don't believe in such nonsense. But my armor of disbelief has several large dents in it now. The situation goes far to explain the odd news stories that had erupted over the past few weeks, but there wasn't a chance I could help them ID the guy. Or dog. Or whatever he was.

All I ask is that the next time he walks into a bar, it's someone else's.