The continuing story of SHITWOLF:

 

What follows it the brutal account of how five bizarre men came together to become the jaw dropping musical force whose name is spoken around the world, in whispers and blood curdling screams, SHITWOLF!

The Mange:

Nobody knows who the Mange's parents were, there are rumors of gypsy madmen and philandering royalty, but nothing can be confirmed, and any parties claiming direct knowledge died under mysterious circumstances . What is known is that The Mange was abandoned at an early age in the slums of Paris, where he almost certainly would have died had he not been taken in by the alpha female of a pack of feral dogs who roamed the city. It is said that she found him wailing in a dumpster, on the verge of starvation and about to be mauled by some of the younger males in the pack looking to bring her a tasty prize. Why she did what she did defies all instinct, perhaps she sensed some smell on him that recalled happier days, perhaps it was some protective magic placed on him by gypsy relatives, or it was one of those strange fluke happenings of the natural world. Whatever her reasons, she savagely fought off three young males that surrounded him and tenderly carried him back to rotting bridge abutment that passed for her den where she nursed him on her own milk until he was able to fend for himself.

He roamed with the pack for ten brutal years. As a young child he was smaller and slower than the rest of the pack, and was constantly reminded of this through tooth and claw. Many times he was saved from death in the jaws of his pack mates by the ferocious protection of his surrogate mother. As he grew older and stronger his struggle was no easier. When the ranking males of the pack realized he could become a threat to them, they began to attack him with increasing violence just as the lesser dogs were backing off. Around this time, even though none of the other dogs dared touch her, the ravages of age began to attack the grand wolfhound that had served as his mother and protector for the last ten years. One day, in the hottest part of summer she led him back to the dumpster where she had first found him and saved his life. The rest of the pack followed them down the dead end alley a respectful distance behind. The wolfhound tried to jump into the dumpster several times, failing each time, until The Mange helped her in. She the laid down in a comfortable spot, looked The Mange in the eyes one last time, as if to say good luck, and died.

As one voice the entire pack let loose the howl of their mourning. Feral dog and man child alike wailed to the heavens for the loss of their greatest protector and beloved leader. For several minutes the cry held strong, then slowly faded out, and all was silent. The Mange turned around to see the three largest males of the pack approaching slowly, surely and with eyes full of death. The pack was without a leader and that would be settled before the next ten minutes were up. The rest of the pack was also moving closer in a solid line a safe distance behind the leaders. They were there to see that the bodies of the losers did not go to waste. In the world of survival of the fittest, second place is still dead, and dignity is a luxury reserved for very few. The Mange knew all this, in his years with the pack it was something that was that did not even need to be taught it simply was. Living ten years of this life had made him tougher and faster than civilized man would think possible. He also had ten pounds on the largest of the feral dogs in the pack, but he knew it would not be enough. Because the dog had canine canines, fangs designed by brutal evolutionary forces to kill beings such as him. He however had hands, hands shaped by the same eveloutionary forces to wield objects in his defence. In desparation he picked up the nearest object to him and the dogs paused. What happens next defies logic, but desparation and logic rarely meet, and now was not one of those times.

The object he had seized had a long handle and a large body, and he had intended to wield it like a club. But it also had some sort of wires across the front and when had touched them a strange sound eminated from the object and the dogs crouched a little, more unsure than before. Suddenly all his anger, his frustration at his inabilty to fend off death, his pain and loss went into his hands and into the strings of the guitar he was holding (he didn't know it but that's what the object was. The dumpster he was left in, and where his mother now laid, was behind a shop that made and sold traditional musical intsruments. One of the shops master builders had secretly made a guitar that completely broke tradition, and considered it his masterpiece. When he triumphantly showed it to the owner of the shop he was told “It's hideous, it will never sell, throw it away this instant or I'll see that you will never work in this town again.” So reluctanly, the master took his work out back to the dumpster, but rather than throw it in, he placed it alongside, hoping someone would come along and at least play the thing. Which is exactly what happened.)

It is said that what The Mange played that night is the single greatest piece of music ever written, performed, or concieved, at any point, anywhere on earth. However, as it was played by an illiterate youth to a pack of dogs, this is entirely speculation. Regardless, it saved the boys life. The dogs all sat, instantly and without question. They listened, in the way only the senses of a dog, heighteded by years of hardship and toil can listen. And they changed, the feral man child went from being a rival to be eliminated to there unquestioned leader so quickly, and so completely that they had no reccolection of him as anything else. They only knew him as the being that made sounds that elevated them from the pain of hunger to an understanding of the universal pain of the universe, that all dogs and men and other things suffered together but put out of their minds because they could not handle it. But these dogs understood it, and they could handle it, as long as there was this sound.

After a long time The Mange, still playing, but slower and softer now, began to walk back to the den underneath the bridge abutment. The pack rose and walked with him in a protective group, with scouts running out ahead, then quickly retuning to the music. Upon reaching the place he abruptly stopped, and dropped to the ground exhausted. Most of the pack did so as well. Except for a few who stayed awake to keep a protective watch. Those few howled through the night, no longer mourning the loss of their former leader, but mourning the stoppage in the sound.

The next morning the pack woke before dawn and went on the hunt with a new vigor. More than the usual number of neighborhood cats and rats fell before their fury, and trash cans were tumbled in a larger radius than ever before. By the time the city awoke the pack was sated and back in hiding, with The Mange playing a song of triumph for the successful hunt and the lazy time until it was dark and they would roam again. So it went for many years, and the pack prospered. There were periodic rumors in the neighborhood of a wild haired youth, wearing nothing but a guitar on his back, running at the head of a pack of wild dogs. These rumors were never confirmed. When the local gendarmes stumbled across the hiding place of the pack all they saw was a lone street musician practicing in the shadows, fiercely protected by his terror of a dog.

It continued like this until one day, a dark stranger appeared, also with a guitar on his back. His guitar spoke to the one of The Mange until they spoke as one, changing everything.

Johnny Alpha:

In the late 20th century the colonial powers released their colonial holdings, leaving behind chaos and strife, keeping millions in fear and poverty. But not all suffered, a few prospered. Those with with the arms to take what little spoils were to be had, and those who took those spoils in return for the arms to take more. Old man Alpha was one of the latter. He bought and sold anything that caused pain and death if it would turn a profit. It made him very very rich without doing much for his soul. He thought he could solve that with the love of a beautiful and sensitive woman. She had enough soul for both of them. She was a singer, turned actress, who had become burned out on the hollow life of hollywood. She went to a south asian country that was “a little rough around the edges” and was still poor enough that not many people had televisions to “find herself.” She found him. She honestly thought he was a spy, he didn't hang out in the areas populated by the weathy ex-pats or the backpackers. He circulated with a different group of people. Deadly people. She was fascinated.

Their third world affair lasted though several months of legendary passion and she followed him through five countries on two continents. She never asked what he did for a living. She just assumed he was a spy for the CIA. After all, he was well dressed, carried a gun, and did business in embassies, nightclubs and casinoes. When he returned to the US so did she. Renewed by their passionate affair she started acting again. A few months into shooting it becme obvious she was pregnant. When she tried to contact her lover she discovered that he had dissapeared without a trace. She went so far as to coctact the CIA trying to discover his whearabouts. She was told to go away and never ask again. She then went to the FBI, and found them to be far more helpful. They revealed to her the dark nature of her lovers true proffesion. He was one of their most wanted with ties to criminal organizations around the world. In the US they had connected him to the suspicious deaths of a number of competitors and several agents who had been assigned to his case. She was heartbroken. While she had suspected her lovers proffesion to be dark, she could not believe the wake of death and destruction that followed him around the world. The FBI gave her a contact number to call if she should ever see him again.

However, for many years the only trace of the man who fathered her son would be his face periodically showing up in the background of newspaper photographs of some war torn part of the world, usually one that was about to get a hell of a lot worse. She raised her son alone, steeping him in the world of music. She considered it to be the one love that could never betray her. Her acting be more soulful, and tragic. She gave up the light musicals and became famous for stunning portrayals of lost love and futilty. All the music and joy in her life were reserved for her private time with her son, Johnny. The joy she shared with Johnny was thing that kept her going for ten years. The night of her sons tenth birthday she threw a rare party for the hollywood upper crust. As the guests were leaving one lingered back. A tall man sitting at the bar, he was facing away from her, she could not remember seeing him at the party, but there was something deeply familiar about his bearing. As she closed the door behind the last of the other guests, the man turned around. She dropped her wine on to the tile floor, overcome by the shock of seeing her long lost, and very deadly, former lover. She had spent many nights thinking of what she would say at this moment. She said none of them, instead she said, “How are you?” He replied, “I think you know that I'm doing just fine. I've come for my son, I'm taking him with me, tonight.” To her unending surprise she answed, “okay.” After ten years of anger and pain, her love still prevented her from refusing even his most terrible request. “Johnny, come in here and meet your father. He's going to take you for a ride.” He took the excited young man out the door to his Ferrari. In parting he lied, “We'll be back soon.”

“I, know.” She lied in return.

To be continued. . .

Coming Soon:

Johnny Alpha's education in the international school of death,

The adventures of Don Martinez Ortiz Rodriquez,

and the haunting tale of Evil Lincoln!