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Every night, that October, a low fog had settled over the small town of Hazelbrook, and every night, as people huddled around their television sets for more information, they were shocked to see another report of what they all somehow expected to see.

"Another grisly attack on an unarmed civilian, and this time, police have revealed the cause of death: an animal bite."

It was the fifth such case since October had started, as a month, and people were beginning to wonder if it was paranoia that was making the cases so prevalent, or if there really was some sort of massive, rabid creature stalking around the quiet neighborhoods, looking for unsuspecting people to make into a savory meal.

Despite it being so early in the month, there were already talks of cancelling Halloween and any related activities until the source of the murders was found, and the neighborhood watch was nervous, but still, brave and noble citizens did their best to stay out at night and patrol the sidewalks of what was once a friendly, peaceful town.

Naturally, there were still those who didn't pay much attention to the news, and being socially awkward to begin with, they didn't give much stock to the fact that the very few people who were still outside were giving them strange looks. Connor Barton, a fairly average looking man, was the kind of person who didn't pay a lot of attention to his TV unless he was playing video games, and he didn't have time for the news, even when he was browsing the Internet. He was detached from the world, and as such, he hadn't heard a thing about the string of murders that was going on in his quaint, little town.

He was just concerned with losing his gut, finally, as he power-walked down the street and through the cul-de-sac that he lived within. Cherrywood Lane was his home for the last ten years, ever since he'd graduated college and moved out to the smallest, quietest suburb that he could find, desperate to get away from the hustle and bustle of the big city. He liked things to be quiet, and preferred the casual indoors that his home in the suburbs provided for him. Everyone had a nice house, a nice smile, and kept mostly to themselves, which made it easy for Connor to blend into the woodwork and live his own life, without probing or questioning.

His was a carefree lifestyle, but it was soon to come around to bite him, quite literally, as he kept up with his nightly routine of walking several miles.

The world was quieter at night, something that Connor appreciated, as it meant that the noisy children of the neighbors wouldn't be out to bother him. He could dress in the silly jogging suit that barely managed to wrap around the rotund bulge of his stomach without being judged, and his thighs could scrape together as he walked without someone commenting on the noise that they made. It would have been just a little spooky for Connor to hear the [b][i]swip, swip, swip[/b][/i] of the silky leggings brushing against each other as he walked, but the earbuds in his ear canals drowned out everything with the soothing sounds of Hall & Oates.

Connor was convinced that the world was his oyster during the evening, to the point that he was starting to get arrogant about the way he carried himself. He sneered at the neighborhood watch members who looked upon him so frightfully, and he swung his arms in large, garish loops, as if that would somehow help burn the fat off of his body faster.

If any of the neighborhood watch members had actually stopped Connor, they might have been able to prevent the terrible fate that was coming his way, but as he made it further and further from his house, and the fog in the air became dense with moisture, Connor was out of view before anyone could so much as tap him on the shoulder.

What he felt was less of a tap, and more of a burning sensation as his nerve endings fought over which level of pain was allowed to reach the brain, first. Fangs that could easily cut through steel dug into delicate, soft flesh and only stopped when they reached the bones in Connor's shoulder. A terrible scraping sound made Connor tense up against the jowls of the beast as his fangs rubbed against the skeletal structure within, and flesh was easily torn from tendons as the creature tugged his head back and away.

With a flurry of blood, Connor fell to the ground and clutched his upper back the best that he could, but so much as moving his right arm was a brutal agony, one that someone with such a comfortable life couldn't hope to combat. His mind was a dark, fearful blank, one that was grasping at the straws of what had just happened to him.

Around all of it, there was a mystique of confusion, as whatever beast of the night had come for Connor, it easily could have finished the job, but instead, it looked down on the writhing human with pity and walked away, fresh blood still dripping and trickling from the gaps in his fangs.

The same crimson flow was pooling around Connor and his chest. Had he screamed? Did he cry out in terror when he felt sharp, piercing teeth digging into his body?

He wasn't sure. He couldn't remember exactly how he'd ended up face down on the sidewalk, or how long he'd been laying there in the guise of the thick, demonic fog. He only knew that the pain was spreading, radiating from his shoulder and moving across his torso as he tried to help himself off of the ground using just his left arm.

[i]I'm gonna die. I'm totally gonna die. I was just trying to get back into good shape, and some punk came up and stabbed me in the back,[/i] Connor thought, unaware of the reality of the situation. His obnoxiously loud music completely drowned out the low, wicked growl of the werewolf who came after him, and he still hadn't actually looked back at his shoulder to see the pattern of small, gushing holes that were etched permanently into his shoulder. When he finally did, his normally half-lidded eyes went wide, and his mouth fell agape as he saw obvious bite marks engraved into his form.

Lazily combed hair of brown shook on Connor's head as he trembled. He'd been assaulted by some kind of animal, but for some reason, he was allowed to live. The shock of such a realization was enough to help Connor up to his feet, but it wasn't nearly enough to keep him from stumbling around as he clenched his shoulder in a vain attempt to stop the flowing blood. He was sure that he would bleed out before too long if he wasn't careful, but he didn't feel any of the typical characteristics associated with heavy blood loss; his stumbling was the result of panic, and he wasn't even remotely lightheaded or cold.

It was only when his hand felt as though it was growing wider to cover the wound that he began to realize what might have attacked him, and what was going on.

"Feels like my hand is the size of a pancake," Connor mumbled, as he brought the blood-stained appendage in front of his face. Sure enough, his palms were growing wider, and rather hairy, as the blood began to soak back into his skin. "Well, I guess that'll show me to masturbate so damn much..."

Ever the sarcastic one, Connor tried to make light of the fuzz that was spreading over his palm, but the thicker it grew, the more concerned he became, until the fluff was running up and over his wrist. He tried to shake it out, hoping that the fur would simply fall off, but only managed to fling blood over the soft, easily stained fabric of his light blue jogging suit, effectively ruining it. "Oh, for the love of fuck!" he yelled out, but he quickly covered his own mouth, for fear of alerting one of the neighborhood watch members. Now would have been a bright time to do exactly that, but Connor wanted to see what was going to happen next, and if he was found, the only thing to come next would be a trip to the hospital, at best.

Of course, it was more than a little silly of Connor to be worried about his jogging suit, or the outcome of the transformation more than his health, but that was just the kind of person he was; living in his own little world, concerned with things that he shouldn't necessarily be, and thinking that he might stop something really cool from happening if he wasn't careful. He was never the coolest kid in college, and always had something of an obsession for the nerdier things in life, so it wasn't all that surprising that he'd want to see a lycanthropic transformation all the way through, and as he darted into the bushes, using the stubborn fog as a cover, he was determined to do exactly that.

The fur was traveling more rapidly over his wrist, now, and his left arm was beginning to mimic the right, as fur sprouted up from his hands, covering up the smooth lines across his palms and surrounding his knuckles in fields of fluff, until they disappeared completely. Shock and fear were giving way to something akin to eagerness as Connor could feel his wound recovering at a rapid pace, something that a human body couldn't possibly manage. He was still mildly fearful, of course, but there was something so very [b]cool[/b] about the concept of being able to recover from such [i]grievous[/i] wound so easily.

"Wonder what's gonna happen to me now?" Connor asked himself, keeping his voice low and quiet as his ears began to pick up on sounds that he never noticed before. The rustling of the leaves was every bit as prominent to his senses as the blatant yelling of parents disappointment, and the crisp, refreshing scent of autumn was so powerful that Connor almost found it repulsive. All in time, his ears were shifting back from the side of his head and moving upward to pick up more of the sounds of the world around him, and his flesh made sure he knew it; he felt as though someone had hooked a finger inside both corners of his lips and was tugging his face painfully tight.

The flesh began to push the other way, as well, as his nose extended from his body, as if he were a wooden doll who had told a lie. Along with length came width, as a muzzle was quick to form around the growing nose, and Connor was well aware by then of what he was becoming. His fear would have been entirely sarcastic if there were any, as he looked down over each and every square inch of his body with proper excitement, assured that he was soon to be a rippling, powerful werewolf. He could already imagine the muscles tearing across his flesh and giving him the kind of terrifying presence he always dreamed he'd achieve by power-walking, and he could feel his powerful, crunching maw squeezing down around whatever he deemed fitting for a meal. He could feel a nub emerging from just above the waistline of his pants, and it wiggled with the same kind of anticipation that he felt inside, as his tail began to grow.

[i]Being a werewolf is gonna be so [b]cool![/b][/i] Connor thought. He couldn't help bringing his paws up to his growing muzzle to keep himself from cheering aloud. He knew he'd have to find a place to lay low for a little bit so that he could complete his transformation, but it would be worth all of the effort to sneak back to his house. He had plenty of fog to act as cover, which was a good thing, as he continually tripped over his own legs from their constant shifting. His thighs were growing wider, and fur was beginning to grow with such a thickness that his jogging suit was ripping at the seams. His feet were clumsy as they tried to embrace their transformation into paws, but he figured that was just a standard issue that all people had when they turned into a werewolf; getting used to an entirely different body was sure to be a difficult experience.

Wearing a grin that was every bit as canine as it was devious, Connor stole across the darkness of the cul-de-sac, moving back to his house with what he thought was a blistering pace. He tried to jump one of the fences of his neighbors yard, sure that he would be able to clear it with ease...but the low, two foot fence was still a bit more than he could make it over, and he face-planted into the dirt, feeling more pain and embarrassment from that than he ever did from the initial bite.

"...Just getting used to it," he murmured, as he stood up, wiped himself off and continued skulking, walking in the way that he thought a werewolf should.

**

Strength. Speed. Terrifying hunting ability. Sharp senses. Deadly claws and fangs. Rippling muscles.

These were the things that people often associated with werewolves, and all of the qualities combined made for a killing machine that was equal parts deadly and handsome.

As he often did after his evening power walks, Connor made his way back home, and was only able to make it as far as the futon in the living room before he collapsed from exhaustion. He knew that he was starting to make some progress, as he could feel a terrible throbbing in his legs, but as his memory started to come around, he realized that it likely wasn't from the walk, and he began to giggle with giddy anticipation as he jumped off of the futon and jogged around the room in small circles, holding his stomach and doing everything that he could to resist looking at himself in a full length mirror.

His stomach didn't feel quite as toned as he expected it would, but Connor didn't pay it even a lick of attention as he ran through his kitchen and down the hallway, toward his bedroom. The house was far larger than one person could ever need, but Connor made his purchase at just the right time to take advantage of the housing crisis, and as such, he lived in a mostly empty house, one that he was already envisioning as he castle, as he fell further and further into the fantasy idea of being a werewolf for the rest of his days.

"I'll be super fast, and super strong, and the ladies will just [b]love[/b] me, and I'll be able to pick a fight with all of those stupid jerks at the bar, and I'll call myself Bloodfang Moonhowl!" he said all in one breath. He might exhaust himself in just his words if he wasn't careful, as he threw open the door to his bedroom in his excitement. He was worried he might accidentally rip it off the hinges, so he tried to keep his energy in check as he ran inside and pounced the carpet in front of his full length mirror, tackling down the invisible prey that was waiting there for him. He growled a deep, throaty growl as the fur upon the back of his neck stood upright, and he did the same, so that he could gaze upon his new, fully transformed glory in the mirror.

A big, fuzzy gut. Shoulders that slumped with disappointment. Eyes that were almost immediately blurry as they gazed into the mirror, proving that Connor would still need glasses. Almost no muscles to speak of.

"I...I look like God put me in a blender with some fur, drank me and spewed me back onto the street," he muttered, his voice laden with disappointment as he lifted his arms to his sides and took a couple of quick poses to make sure that he wasn't just seeing things. He was definitely a werewolf, as thick, black fur covered every inch of his body, and his eyes were tinted with a soft layer of gold that gave them a certain feeling of menace, but there was nothing more to him than that. His tail hung long, lazy, and just a little bit chubby behind him, and though his wound had indeed healed quite rapidly, the full, rotund flesh of his gut remained, hanging down slightly over his manhood, which couldn't be seen anymore anyway, thanks to the change in his anatomy.

Connor tried to smile, but it just looked awkward with his muzzle, which didn't quite curve the same way as a human mouth. He knew that he was smiling, but if anyone else saw it, they might not be able to figure it out, and that might be the most frightening thing about him. His extra thickness was actually expanded upon by the transformation, and though his fur was a full coat of excess, it didn't hide the fact that there were no muscles underneath, or the fact that Connor was still in fairly miserable shape.

He'd have to buy all new clothes to fit the bulk of his fur, and he'd have to find a job where he could work from home, if he was lucky. He thought that this would be his ticket out of mediocrity, but instead, he was now further mired in it, trapped into a life of going to furry conventions and being a special guest speaker about the dangers of lycanthropy.

Some days, he'd still think back on the fateful encounter that brought him into the twisted world that he was now a part of, as he took surveys online at his computer. He was beginning to have back problems, as his fear of leaving the house was keeping him from doing much exercising, and his job taking surveys online wasn't helping, as he sat in one position all day.

"Oh, you...you are [b]way[/b] too good for him, Clarice!" he shouted, as he threw another finished Popsicle stick at the TV screen while watching 'Real Housewives of Orange County.' He pulled another Popsicle from the cooler and stuffed it in his mouth, biting it into unsightly chunks and spilling half of them into his matted, mangy fur. "Don't you take any guff from him! You march right into his office and embarrass him in front of everyone!"

The people around Connor's old house never saw him leaving it anymore, but the bills were still being paid, and so, there was never any eviction. The house gathered a reputation for being haunted by the laziest, heaviest ghost that anyone had ever seen, and rumor had it that if you threw desserts on the front stoop, you might see a slow, clumsy werewolf adjusting his glasses and reading the nutritional value on the package.