One More Pre-Halloween Scary Short (this time, a parody): "Claw & Gore-der"

"Claw & Gore-der"

Opening Segment:

In the creature justice system, monsters are represented by two separate yet equally important groups—the lycanthropic cops who investigate crime and the vampiristic attorneys who prosecute the offenders. These are their stories.

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Central Crypt Park - Midnight

The fog rolled thick over Central Crypt Park, shrouding the towering skeletal trees. Looming shadows fell across the cobblestone path. A pair of ghouls, Slackjaw and Ghoulbert, shuffled through the darkness. Their red eyes glowed faintly in the moonlight.

“Ghoulbert, you hear that?” Slackjaw muttered, pausing as a low groan echoed through the mist.

“Probably just the wind,” Ghoulbert grunted, dragging his clawed feet along the ground. “Or maybe the banshees are at it again.”

As they rounded the bend, the source of the sound came into view—something crumpled against the base of a twisted oak. Slackjaw sniffed the air, his nostrils flaring.

“That ain’t no banshee,” he said, stepping closer.

Ghoulbert joined him, peering down at the figure. The creature was motionless, its fur matted with blood, eyes glassy and lifeless.

“Holy hell, Slackjaw,” Ghoulbert whispered, his voice trembling. “That’s a werewolf… and he’s been shredded.”

Slackjaw's face twisted in a snarl. “We gotta call someone.”

Crime Scene – 1:32 am

Detective Wrecks Lupin, a grizzled werewolf with silver fur and a permanent scowl, surveyed the scene. His partner, Officer Snarl Threadbare, hovered nearby. His predatory lupine eyes scanned the ground.

“Looks like whoever did this wanted to send a message,” Wrecks growled, crouching beside the body.

“More like rip out a page from a horror novel,” Threadbare replied. “This isn’t just any werewolf. This is Viktor Shadowclaw, pack leader of the West Howlers.”

Wrecks’s ears twitched at the name. “This is gonna spark a full-on turf war if we don’t find the monster who did this.”

Officer Krustrattle lumbered over with a small evidence bag. Inside was a small clump of scales.

“Found this on the vic’s throat,” Krustrattle said in his deep, rumbling voice.

Wrecks took the bag, examining the scales closely. His expression darkened. “This ain’t no ordinary murder. This was supposed to look like a werewolf on werewolf crime. I ain’t so sure.”

Office of Bella Donna, Vampire Prosecutor, the next night, 10:17 pm, winds from the south-southwest

Bella Donna, a sharp-dressed vampire with piercing blue eyes and a voice smooth as velvet, leaned back in her chair as Wrecks and Threadbare briefed her on the situation.

“A werewolf pack leader, torn apart in the middle of Central Crypt Park,” Wrecks said. “And we’ve got a bunch of scales that don’t match any known perps on file.”

Bella steepled her fingers. Her fangs gleamed as she spoke. “This goes beyond simple murder. Whoever did this knew exactly who they were targeting. We need to find out who, and fast, before the packs start tearing each other apart.”

“I’ve got my team working around the clock,” Wrecks replied. “But if this is what I think it is, we’re dealing with something, or someone, far more dangerous than we’ve ever seen.”

Bella’s eyes narrowed. “Then let’s make sure we’re prepared. I’ll get a warrant for every supernatural enclave in the city. You just get me a reason.”

As Wrecks and Threadbare turned to leave, Bella’s voice cut through the silence. “And Wrecks… watch your back. If they’re bold enough to go after a pack leader, no one’s safe.”

Wrecks nodded, “Don’t worry, Ms. Donna. We’ll find them.”

Nosferatune’s Lair, 11:52 pm, humidity 36%, the moon is in Scorpio

The neon sign outside the nightclub flickered intermittently. It was a place where the undead and the undying could unwind. Inside, the bass thumped like a heartbeat, vibrating through the very bones of the club’s patrons (some of which didn’t have much flesh to speak of).

Detectives Wrecks and Threadbare pushed through the entrance. Wrecks pushed through throngs of the monsters milling through the dance floor. Threadbare sniffed the air, his senses sharp as ever. He growled under his breath, which was drowned out by the blaring music.

“This place smells like trouble,” Threadbare muttered.

“I’ll say,” Wreck replied, “And not just those stinkin’ zombies.”

The club was packed with a motley crew of creatures of the night. A DJ spun a vinyl record with talon-like fingers with his pale face lit by the pulsing strobes. On the dance floor, a mummy twirled, her bandages fluttering in the artificial breeze caused by large fans in the ceiling. By the bar, a ghoul sipped from a glass of something dark and thick.

Threadbare nudged Wrecks, nodding toward a shadowy figure slinking through the crowd. They recognized her instantly from the length rap sheet at the station. She was a ghoul named Moribund Holes who was notorious for her grave-robbing side business. The detectives weren't sure if she was connected to the recent monstercide, but she might have heard about it. Wrecks nodded, signaling they should question her.

“Let’s not spook her,” Threadbare whispered gruffly.

“Spooking’s kinda our thing,” Threadbare replied with a mouth full of sharp teeth.

They wove through the throng towards their suspect. Salem Hex watched them from a corner booth, her black cat perched on her shoulder. Her eyes gleaming in the darkness. Salem was a reliable source, but they would have to circle back to her in a bit. Moribund would not stay there long.

Finally, they reached Moribund. She turned slowly, her eyes glinting with something between curiosity and contempt. “Detectives,” she purred, “What brings you to my lair?”

“We just have a few questions,” Wreck started.

Before he could say more, a clatter erupted from the other side of the club. A barstool crashed noisily to the floor.

All heads turned as Glum Hackavitch bolted from his seat after spotting the detective, also known as a repeat offender by the detectives. His black trench coat flapped behind him as he sprinted for the exit. The fellow was quick for a gill-man.

“Scales, Wrecks! That’s our guy!” Threadbare barked, already giving chase.

Wrecks groaned inwardly. The chase was cliché and predictable. They pushed through the crowd, knocking aside a few zombies who grumbled in protest. Other monsters had sense enough to jump out of the way.

Glum Hackavitch was fast, but Threadbare was faster. His wolfish agility propelling him forward at a predatory run. He leaped onto the stage, diving off the edge to block Hackavitch’s path.

But Glum Hackavitch was desperate. He veered sharply, heading for the club’s back door. The gill-man was out in the dark before the detectives could stop him.

The back alley was a foreboding tunnel that seemed to swallow sound. Hackavitch had gone silent, hoping to evade pursuit. Threadbare was right on his tail, though, and sniffed eagerly for the scent. Wrecks, despite his less-than-athletic build, wasn’t far behind.

Threadbare snarled as he found the scent. He pointed to a dumpster. As the detectives walked towards it, Glum Hackavitch’s fin claws echoed against the pavement as he bolted. The alley was a dead with no escape. The full moon hung low in the sky, casting long shadows that seemed to point the way to their pursuit.

Just as Hackavitch reached the end of the alley, a brick wall looming before him. Threadbare tackled him to the ground. He struggled, but the werewolf’s strength was too much. Wrecks caught up, panting with his long werewolf tongue. He was out of shape and this was a reminder to eat less furry treats.

“Going somewhere?” Threadbare growled, baring his teeth.

Hackavitch’s eyes darted around. The gill-man was desperate, but there was no way out. He was caught. Threadbare held the slimy aquatic monster to the ground as Wrecks cuffed the creature.

Threadbare tightened his grip, pulling Hackavitch to his feet. “Listen up, Glum,” Threadbare growled, “You have the right to remain inhuman. Anything you moan, groan, or howl can and will be used against you in a court of claws.”

Wrecks nodded, leading the gill-man to the squad car.

“You have the right to a witch, warlock, or other supernatural counsel. If you cannot summon one, the underworld will provide one for you (though I wouldn’t recommend it).”

Threadbare’s voice dropped to a menacing whisper. “And you have the right to remain silent… but we both know, in the end, you’ll spill your guts. Figuratively or literally.”

Hackavitch’s gills fluttered spastically. Panic crept into his fishy veins. The gill-ma knew there was no escaping the inevitable.

“Do you understand your frights as they’ve been recited to you?” Threabare asked.

Hackavitch gave a reluctant nod, knowing all too well that in the world of Claw & Gore-der, the monsters who don’t play by the rules always end up six feet under (or worse).

The detectives knew this was just the beginning. Now, it was up to the district attorney to prosecute the case. Wrecks smiled, knowing Bella Donna’s conviction rate. Glum Hackavitch would pay for his crimes. His fish was fried.