By, Rick Huffman
“Is that the old guy?” Desmond Rutgo asked.
“Yeah, that’s him,” replied his partner,
known as Skeebo.
“Sure doesn’t look like someone with money,”
Rutgo said; watching an old man dressed in
worn, torn and dirty clothing bent over the
edge of a large dumpster.
“That’s why he’s got so much, dummy. He
doesn’t spend any. The old fart probably has
the first penny he ever earned,” said Skeebo.
“Well, what makes you think he has money?”
“My uncle delivered a load of lumber to the
property he has north of here, way out in
the sticks. He paid him in cash. My uncle
said he thinks he’s got it stashed on the
property somewhere. Probably one of those
people that doesn’t trust banks. I heard on
the street he owns a condo in Florida too.
Probably made money in investments or
something,” said Skeebo.
“Well, he sure doesn’t look like much now.
Dumpster diver if you ask me,” said Rutgo,
putting a finger to the left side of his
nose and blowing a stream of snot onto the
“Hey, you don’t want to do it, fine, I’ll do
it myself, but the money is mine,” said
Skeebo, a look of disgust pulling at his
face as Rutgo wiped his nose on his sleeve.
“Alright, let’s do it,” Rutgo said, starting
to move from behind the cover of a building
and into the dim light of a street lamp.
“No, no, wait. He’s not going to have
anything on him. We’ll wait until he makes
the next trip to that wooded lot. There’ll
be no one around to see us.”
“What do you suppose those two idiots are up
to? Officer John Mays asked his partner,
Bill Young, as they watched Rutgo and Skeebo
walking down the street.
“You can bet it’s no good,” replied Young.
“It’s too bad the damn court system keeps
kicking them back out onto the streets.
Rutgo was just had for a breaking and
entering and, Skeebo for that aggravated
assault on that elderly woman,” said Mays,
taking a sip from a cup of coffee he’d just
purchased at the Pri-Mart.
“Yeah, the two have no redeeming qualities,
we’ll get them. It’s just a matter of time,”
said Young, taking a bite from a frosted
“Are you sure he went down this two-track?”
“It’s the only place he could have gone. You
don’t see his tail lights do you?” Skeebo
“Think he knows we’ve been following him?”
“No, no way. The old coot doesn’t know shit,
quit worrying,” said Skeebo, turning onto
the two track.
“Well, don’t you be getting us lost, these
are big ass woods,” replied Rutgo.
“Man, I shouldn’t have let you in on this.
All you’ve done is cry about everything,”
“Shut up, stupid,” Rutgo said, punching
Skeebo in the arm, causing him to swerve;
nearly hitting a tree.
“I just saw brake lights,” Skeebo announced.
“Better stop here. We’ll walk the rest of
the way,” said Rutgo.
The two got out of the car, quietly closing
“You got that hunting knife I sold you?”
“Yes. Why? You looking to skin a Bear or
“Hey, you know as well as I do we can’t let
the old man live after we find out where his
stash is,” said Rutgo.
“I know, but you’re doing it.”
“Why, you chicken?”
“Shut up! Here, you take the knife,” Skeebo
said, pulling it from its sheath.
“Not a problem,” said Rutgo, taking the
The two fumbled along the two track until
they saw dim lights from a small window.
“There it is. Let’s get a little closer and
just watch for a few minutes,” said Rutgo.
After watching for five minutes and not
seeing movement, Rutgo said, “Let’s go.
These Mosquito’s are eating me alive.”
The two made their way to the front of the
house. Then, hearing scraping sounds,
“He’s out back,” said Skeebo.
The two slowly rounded the corner of the
small cabin, An exterior light was on
providing enough illumination where they
could make out the old man with a shovel. He
had just dug a few inches into the soil when
he bent down to retrieve a silver can.
“I told you,’ Skeebo whispered.
The two watched as the old man opened the
can and retrieved some money.
Suddenly, Rutgo jumped out and charged the
old man, knocking him to the ground.
“Give me that,” Rutgo shouted, grabbing a
wad of bills from the old man’s frail hands.
“Look at this shit. There must be a thousand
bucks here,” said Rutgo, excitedly stuffing
the money in his pants pocket.
“That’s mine, give it back,” said the old
man in a shaky voice.
Rutgo kicked, hitting the old man in the
ribs, saying, “Where’s the rest you old
fart. I know there has to be more!”
Suddenly, from the darkness of the forest, a
series of howls erupted.
“Wolves,” cried Skeebo. “Let’s get this done
and get the hell out of here.”
Rutgo went at the old man with the knife
then, stopped. Something was wrong. Very
wrong. The old man was writhing about, but
not from pain. His body stretched first this
way then, that. He grew larger, much larger.
Hair, thick hair, sprouted like time lapsed
stages of growth. Where once there were
frail hands now, thick padded paws with
razor sharp claws. Springing from the
ground, what once was an old man, a huge
seven-foot Wolf, it’s dark gums displaying
long white fangs, dripping with saliva,
looked down on Rutgo.
Skeebo gave a shriek, fleeing to the front
of the cabin.
Rutgo; frozen in fear and disbelief, stood
like a statue. Suddenly, the beast stepped
forward and the voice of the old man,
garbled somewhat by a deep guttural sound,
came out saying, “We thought you boys would
never get here. You’re just in time for
Rutgo managed to bring the knife up slicing
into the monsters right forearm. The open
wound closed up before one drop of blood
“Now why’d you want to go and do a thing
like that?” The beast said.
Skeebo; now half way down the two track,
found himself face to face with officer
Mays. Next to him was officer Young.
Relief flooded Skeebo’s features.
“You’ve got to save me,” Skeebo shouted.
“Sure, we’ll save you,” said Mays. Then,
suddenly he and Young both quickly turned
into beasts like the one Skeebo had left
“We’ll save you for dessert,” said the beast
known as Young.
An hour later three sated Werewolves pushed
themselves from the table.
“That’s it for me,” said Young.
“Me too,” said Mays.
The third beast was taking human form again.
“Yeah, that was one great meal,” said the
old man. “We’ll have to start working on the
next worthless bums, using their greed to
get them here on their own volition.”
About the Author
Richard Neal Huffman, of the Bangor Police Department, is the author of Rubal
and Dreams in Blue: The Real Police, along with other short stories.