| Horror and Thriller Fiction posted January 13, 2015 |
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Big business -- it's a dog eat dog world out there...
The Werewolf of Wall Street
by Dean Kuch
Horror Fiction in a Flash Contest Winner
The Werewolf of Wall Street
“What frightens us today is exactly
the sort of thing that frightened us yesterday.
It's just a different wolf.” — Alfred Hitchcock~
~*~
Ian McClure was accompanied by a cocky air of confidence as he strode into the offices of Simon & Seller's Brokerage Firm. The behemoth Art Deco building known as the Bloodsworth Complex towered ominously among the more modern architecture of Lincoln Avenue. A collection of gargoyles stood sentry atop the structure's uppermost rim.
With a nod and a wink, he whisked past the security desk at a rapid trot without bothering to sign in, then rode the elevator to the top floor.
He was over an hour late.
“Ian! You gonna finish the report on the Schuster account sometime this year, or do ya need a special invitation?”
Barry Gleason — General Manager of the firm — patrolled the olive drab room of cubicles like a famished panther in search of prey. His sweat-soaked shirt and loosely knotted polyester tie were in stark contrast to the extremely well polished young man he curtly addressed. The always courteous, perpetually smiling Ian McClure.
“No, you are going to finish the report for me, Mr. Gleason. After you do, I'll win this firm the most lucrative portfolio and client it's ever seen. You'll in turn jump from this floor after I've gone.” Ian's eyes gleamed deep garnet as he locked gazes with the stunned and perplexed Mr. Gleason. A smattering of drool dribbled unnoticed down his double chin, mingling with perspiration on his already saturated shirt.
“Uh-h-h-h...you know, Ian; you've been working too hard lately — puttin' in lots of overtime. Why don't I take that report off your hands and finish it up for ya? I can have 'er done in say... oh, 'bout an hour or so?” The splotches of perspiration beneath Gleason's armpits spread, spidering out like black ink spilled on pale parchment. His eyes were expressionless as he spoke. He seemed to look through Ian more than at him.
“Sure, Mr. Gleason. That would be kind of you, sir.”
“You're such a... polite lad, Ian. So...kind.”
“Yes, just as you've indicated, sir. So very kind...”
“Yeah — yeah...so...kind, Ian.”
“After I've left, but not until you've finished my report, you're going to open that window,”— he jabbed the air with a mucronate, meticulously manicured fingernail toward one of the large windows against the far wall — “and jump to your death.”
“Ju-jump to my death...yes, I'm going to jump out window...to...my...death."
Ian's eyes twinkled in the fluorescent light. A smirk snaked across his lips. He arose from his desk, smoothing out his suit coat and tie in a single fluid motion.
“I'm going home now. You have everything under control.”
“Ye-yes, you should...go...on...home. I...have...ev-erything under...control.”
~*~
Ian exited the offices of Simon & Seller's Brokerage Firm an hour after setting up a dinner date with the cute little new redhead receptionist on the third floor. It wasn't her vivacious figure and demure demeanor that drew him to her. It was the scent of blood between her silken sensuous thighs that attracted him most. He slid into his new McLaren 650S Coupe, grinning.
The General Manager of a major player like Simon & Seller's must look the part, and I have a promotion coming tomorrow.
The night was clear, and a multitude of shimmering stars struggled faintly to break through against the bright lights of the city. A prodigious full moon perched low on the horizon, augmenting the skyline.
“Leonardo DiCaprio, eat your heart out,” Ian growled. His tone was guttural, primeval. “There's a new type of wolf on Wall Street, and he has a very voracious appetite.”
Smiling into his rearview, Ian bared his teeth. His face covered now by fine, coarse hair, he dragged his tongue across the lengthy incisors. There was money to be made — human beings to slaughter. Ian wanted his piece of the pie, and he was all set to take a huge chunk of it.
Screams from somewhere overhead invaded his reverie, followed by the soggy 'tha-whock!' of flesh and bone meeting pavement. Ian started the car, coaxing the engine to a rumbling roar. Credence Clearwater Revival blared over the stereo.
Flashing a toothy smirk, Ian sang along cheerfully as he sped away...
“Oh, don't go out tonight
for it's bound to take your life,
ther-r-r-r-r-r-e's a bad moon on the rise...”
The Werewolf of Wall Street
“What frightens us today is exactly
the sort of thing that frightened us yesterday.
It's just a different wolf.” — Alfred Hitchcock~
~*~
Ian McClure was accompanied by a cocky air of confidence as he strode into the offices of Simon & Seller's Brokerage Firm. The behemoth Art Deco building known as the Bloodsworth Complex towered ominously among the more modern architecture of Lincoln Avenue. A collection of gargoyles stood sentry atop the structure's uppermost rim.
With a nod and a wink, he whisked past the security desk at a rapid trot without bothering to sign in, then rode the elevator to the top floor.
He was over an hour late.
“Ian! You gonna finish the report on the Schuster account sometime this year, or do ya need a special invitation?”
Barry Gleason — General Manager of the firm — patrolled the olive drab room of cubicles like a famished panther in search of prey. His sweat-soaked shirt and loosely knotted polyester tie were in stark contrast to the extremely well polished young man he curtly addressed. The always courteous, perpetually smiling Ian McClure.
“No, you are going to finish the report for me, Mr. Gleason. After you do, I'll win this firm the most lucrative portfolio and client it's ever seen. You'll in turn jump from this floor after I've gone.” Ian's eyes gleamed deep garnet as he locked gazes with the stunned and perplexed Mr. Gleason. A smattering of drool dribbled unnoticed down his double chin, mingling with perspiration on his already saturated shirt.
“Uh-h-h-h...you know, Ian; you've been working too hard lately — puttin' in lots of overtime. Why don't I take that report off your hands and finish it up for ya? I can have 'er done in say... oh, 'bout an hour or so?” The splotches of perspiration beneath Gleason's armpits spread, spidering out like black ink spilled on pale parchment. His eyes were expressionless as he spoke. He seemed to look through Ian more than at him.
“Sure, Mr. Gleason. That would be kind of you, sir.”
“You're such a... polite lad, Ian. So...kind.”
“Yes, just as you've indicated, sir. So very kind...”
“Yeah — yeah...so...kind, Ian.”
“After I've left, but not until you've finished my report, you're going to open that window,”— he jabbed the air with a mucronate, meticulously manicured fingernail toward one of the large windows against the far wall — “and jump to your death.”
“Ju-jump to my death...yes, I'm going to jump out window...to...my...death."
Ian's eyes twinkled in the fluorescent light. A smirk snaked across his lips. He arose from his desk, smoothing out his suit coat and tie in a single fluid motion.
“I'm going home now. You have everything under control.”
“Ye-yes, you should...go...on...home. I...have...ev-erything under...control.”
~*~
Ian exited the offices of Simon & Seller's Brokerage Firm an hour after setting up a dinner date with the cute little new redhead receptionist on the third floor. It wasn't her vivacious figure and demure demeanor that drew him to her. It was the scent of blood between her silken sensuous thighs that attracted him most. He slid into his new McLaren 650S Coupe, grinning.
The General Manager of a major player like Simon & Seller's must look the part, and I have a promotion coming tomorrow.
The night was clear, and a multitude of shimmering stars struggled faintly to break through against the bright lights of the city. A prodigious full moon perched low on the horizon, augmenting the skyline.
“Leonardo DiCaprio, eat your heart out,” Ian growled. His tone was guttural, primeval. “There's a new type of wolf on Wall Street, and he has a very voracious appetite.”
Smiling into his rearview, Ian bared his teeth. His face covered now by fine, coarse hair, he dragged his tongue across the lengthy incisors. There was money to be made — human beings to slaughter. Ian wanted his piece of the pie, and he was all set to take a huge chunk of it.
Screams from somewhere overhead invaded his reverie, followed by the soggy 'tha-whock!' of flesh and bone meeting pavement. Ian started the car, coaxing the engine to a rumbling roar. Credence Clearwater Revival blared over the stereo.
Flashing a toothy smirk, Ian sang along cheerfully as he sped away...
“Oh, don't go out tonight
for it's bound to take your life,
ther-r-r-r-r-r-e's a bad moon on the rise...”
Horror Fiction in a Flash Contest Winner |
 Recognized |
|
Bad Moon Risin' lyrics courtesy of Creedence Clearwater rival, Copyright 1969.
"The Wolf of Wall Street" is a 2013 film directed by Martin Scorsese, starring Leonardo DiCaprio. It is based on the true story of Jordan Belfort, from his rise to a wealthy stock-broker living the high life to his fall involving crime, corruption and the federal government. Belfort concocts truly epic scams, where he uses his powers of persuasion to screw investors and then train a small army to do the screwing for him.
The history of lycanthropy in the United States can be traced back to early Native American legends, yet the werewolf appears in legends all over the world. Vicious animal attacks have been reported for centuries, yet during the day no one can find a trace of the creatures responsible. Those who study mythology have long known that few creatures have the hypnotic mind control ability, power, speed, and mindless slaughtering propensity that werewolves do. People once believed that if you were a werewolf in life, you'd be a vampire in death.
I've been seriously considering making my first novel based upon this, but that completely depends upon how well it is received by you, the readers.
As always, thank you very much for you valuable time, and for reading and supporting my work.
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