Card of the Day - Lightning Salvo

There have been a lot of words lately. Don't worry. They won't bite.
Still, a return to form might be comforting.



Is Panglacial Wurm my favorite card? It might be.

(my favorite card is actually Mr. Doggie, but that's not important right now)

Original Art

Granbarg Barhah

A zombie bedtime story, complete with a happy ending and a translation for those poor souls who can't speak Zamgrh:

Rh!zzan ahn mah, mah zambah brazzahz an zazzahz.
Ah ganna gab ahn grazz zah baag ab zah nabah zambah Granbarg:
Rang agah, zah zabarb ab Ragrabang az m!rhazzan ahn habbah.
Granbarg az an babah zambah, ab zan zgahhz.
Abar ham az an habbah zambah, grh an nabah anmrh.
An nah harrarh ztrag zah zabarb. Mannah zambahz zahz,
--Zah bang bang men ahnran! Zah bag men ahnran!--
Granbarg habganna ran grh zah agharz, abar ham nah haz Rargang Ga!t.
Ham habganna ragah ahn zah barnz, abar zam haz barragazh.
Harazz, Granbarg zaanagh raah zah anabazhabah.
Zahn arang ahnran zah Ragrabang baba.
--Gham ahp, mah brazzah,-- zahz zah baba,
--Gaz az rang az naz gan zzhan, naz gan barg!--
--Abar zam az zah mannah,-- gab Granbarg, --an zam haz ganz! Haah gan naz rangarah?--
--Barhah, mah zambah brazzah,-- gab zah baba, --Barhah.--
An Granbarg z zah zah baba az ragh.
Ham z zah ham az aahgnabarh.
Ham z zah zah harmanz haz magh marh.
Abar ham haz zamzang zah nah harman haz – aar zambahz haz.
Mah zambah brazzahz an zazzahz, naz arr haz Barhah.
Zah harmanz nah haz an ghanz.

An nah zah harman tranzlati!an:

Listen to me, my zombie brothers and sisters.
I’m going to tell you the story of the good zombie Granbarg:
Long ago, the suburb of Ridleybank was peaceful and happy.
Granbarg was a low-level (baby) zombie of three skills.
But he was a happy zombie, with a good unlife.
Yet now horror struck the suburb. Many zombies said,
“The gunmen are coming! The bagmen are coming!”
Granbarg wanted to run with the others, but he did not have Lurching Gait.
He wanted to hide in the buildings, but they had barricades.
Hapless, Granbarg waited for the inevitable.
But along came the Ridleybank papa.
“Get up, my brother,” said the papa,
“for as long as we can stand, we can eat!”
“But they are so many,” said Granbarg, “and they have guns! How can we win?”
“Barhah, my zombie brother,” said the papa, “Barhah.”
And Granbarg saw that the papa was right.
He saw that he was outnumbered.
He saw that the humans have much more.
But he had something that the no human has – all zombies do.
My zombie brothers and sisters, we all have Barhah.
The humans don’t have a chance.

The Man Who Died

While we're on the subject of Harry Potter fanfiction...

Mr. and Mrs. Weasley, of the Burrow, were proud to say that they were perfectly normal, thank you very much. They were the first people you’d expect to be involved in anything strange or mysterious, as they always held with such nonsense.
Mr. Weasley worked for the ministry, in the Misuse of Muggle Artifacts department. He was a small, thin, balding man, with red hair on the sides of his head. Mrs. Weasly was short and full figured, and had just as red hair as Mr. Weasley. The Weasleys had 6 sons, named William, Charles, Percival, Frederick, George, and Ronald; and in their opinions, there were no finer boys anywhere.
The Weasleys didn’t have much, but at least they didn’t have a secret, and didn’t have to worry about anyone discovering it. But, there was a secret in the Weasley house, and if they had known it, then they would have great cause to worry. They wouldn’t bear it if they found out about Scabbers. Scabbers was Percy’s rat, but he wasn’t actually a rat; in fact, Scabbers pretended to be a rat, because he was an animagus on the run and was as un-Weasleyish as it was possible to be. He shuddered to think what the Weasleys would do if they found out who he was. They would know that he had supposedly died recently, but had actually faked it. This was another good reason for staying hidden; he didn’t want the Weasleys to find out about that.
When Mr. and Mrs. Weasley woke on the dull grey Monday our story starts, there was nothing about the cloudy sky outside to suggest that strange and mysterious things that would no longer be happening all over the country. Mr. Weasley hummed as he picked out his most outrageous tie for work, and Mrs. Weasley scolded the children as she tried to get them under control.
None of them noticed a yellow-brown rat with a missing toe slip out the window.
At half-past eight, Mr. Weasley packed into his “modified” car, pecked Mrs. Weasley on the cheek and tried to kiss his sons goodbye, but missed because there were too many of them for him to count. “Little tykes,” chortled Mr. Weasley as he left the house. He got into his car and backed out of the Burrow’s drive.
It was on the corner of the street that he noticed the first sign of something peculiar – a rat sitting on a wall. For a second, Mr. Weasley didn’t realize what he had seen – then he jerked his head around to look again. There was a yellow-brown rat sitting on the wall around the burrow, but it was only Percy’s. What could he have been thinking of? It must have been all this stress. Mr. Weasley blinked, and stared at the rat. It stared back. As Mr. Weasley drove around the corner and up the road, he watched the rat in his mirror. It was now waving its paw – no, lifting its paw; rats couldn’t wave paws at people. Mr. Weasley gave himself a little shake and put the rat out of his mind. As he drove towards the town, he thought of nothing except a large number of muggle artifacts that he was hoping to examine that day.
But on the edge of town, muggle artifacts were driven out of his mind by something else. As he flew above the usual morning traffic jam, he couldn’t help noticing that there a lot of normally clad people about. People in black robes. Mr. Weasley couldn’t bear people who didn’t dress in normal clothes – the get-ups you saw on muggles! He supposed that this was some sort of regression in fashion. He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel, and his eyes fell on a huddle of these people standing quite close by. They were whispering excitedly together. Mr. Weasley was enraged to see that a couple of them weren’t wearing black at all; why, that man had to be older than he was, and wearing an emerald-green robe! The nerve of him! But then it struck Mr. Weasley that this was probably some silly stunt – these people were obviously protesting something…yes, that would be it. Mr. Weasley moved on and a few minutes later, he arrived in the Ministry car park, his mind back on muggle artifacts.
Mr. Weasley always sat in an office on with no window in the Misuse of Muggle Artifacts division. If he hadn’t, he might have found it harder to concentrate on muggle artifacts that morning. He didn’t see the hooded figures going rushing past in broad daylight, though the people down on the street did; they pointed and gazed open-mouthed as Death Eater after Death Eater sped by. Most of them had never seen a Death Eater, even at night-time. Mr. Weasley, however, had a perfectly normal, Death Eater-free morning. He was yelled at by five different people. He worked through several important documents and was shouted at a bit more. He was in a very good mood until lunch-time, when he thought he’d stretch his legs and walk across the road to buy a bun from the baker’s opposite.
He’d forgotten all about the people in non-black robes until he passed a group of them next to the baker’s. He eyed them angrily as he passed. He didn’t know why, but they made him uneasy. This lot were whispering excitedly, too, and he couldn’t see a single protest sign. It was on his way back past them, clutching a large doughnut in his bag, that he caught a few words of what they were saying.
“The Potters, that’s right, that’s what I heard –”
“–yes, Lilly and James–”
Mr. Weasley stopped dead. Fear flooded him. He looked back at the whisperers as if he wanted to say something to them, but thought better of it.
He dashed back across the road, hurried up to his office, was snapped at by his secretary not to disturb her, seized his floo powder, and had almost finished throwing it into the fireplace, and saying, “The Burrow”, when he changed his mind. He put the powder back and rubbed his bald spot, thinking … no, he was just over-reacting. The Potters weren’t that good friends of his. He had always resented James for his untidy hair. Come to think of it, The Dark Lord killed a lot of people. He didn’t really know them that well. They might deserve it. There was no point in worrying Mrs. Weasley, this thing happened all the time. He could understand it – if he’d been a mass murdering psychopath … but all the same, Lilly and James Potter…
He found it a lot harder to concentrate on muggle artifacts that afternoon and when he left the building at five o’ clock, he was still so worried that he walked straight into someone just outside the door.
“Sorry,” he said, as the tiny old man stumbled and almost fell. It was a few seconds before Mr. Weasley realized that the man was wearing a violet cloak. He didn’t seem at all upset at being almost knocked to the ground. On the contrary, his face split into a wide smile and he said in a squeaky voice that made passers-by stare: “Don’t be sorry, my dear sir, for the end is nigh! Fear, for You-Know-Who will kill us all! Even fatheads like yourself should be mourning, this cruel, cruel fate!”
And the old man gave Mr. Weasley a dirty look and walked off.
Mr. Weasley stood rooted to the spot. He had been confronted by a doomsayer. He also thought he had been called a fathead, whatever that was. He was rattled. He hurried to his car, and set off home, hoping that the old man would fall and break his neck, which he had never hoped before, because he didn’t approve of violence.
As he pulled into The Burrow, the first thing he saw – and it didn’t improve his mood – was the yellow-brown rat he had spotted that morning. It was now sitting on the garden wall. He was sure it was the same one; it was missing the same toe.
“Shoo!” said Mr. Weasley loudly.
The rat didn’t move. It just gave him a sneaky look. Was this normal rat behavior, Mr. Weasley wondered. Trying to pull himself together, he let himself into the house. He was still determined not to care.
Mrs. Weasley had had a nice, hectic day. She told him over dinner all about how Fred and George had bothered Percy and how Bill had gotten into some trouble with the gnomes. Mr. Weasley tired to act normally. When the kids had been put to bed, he picked up the Daily Prophet and read the evening news:
“Voldemort strikes again! He is reported to have killed the Lilly and James Potter, and their son, Harry. Well, he hasn’t actually done so yet, but he’s going to. I really shouldn’t be telling you this, because it’s a secret, but we’ve always been good friends. Besides, I like your face. You’ve got a nice face. But keep in mind, this is just a secret between those of us in the know, don’t you know, so don’t tell the Potters. We wouldn’t want to spoil the fun.” Mr. Weasley allowed himself a grin. It was just like the Daily Prophet to like his face. That’s why he kept reading it. “Anyways, keep it secret. And now, turn the page so you can read the next article. I’m told it’s very exciting.”
Mr. Weasley turned the page.
“Well, Ted,” the article began, “I really don’t have a clue what’s going on. So, I’m going to present some muggle news instead. Big news today, a Mrs. Figg of Little Whingim lost a cat. Key members of parliament have dropped by her house to offer condolences, and the government has enlisted the help of the secret service to locate the animal. Mrs. Figg had some things to say about this, but she’s just an old lady and no-one really cares what she says anyhow. In other news, the state of West Virginia has defected from the United States of America. The president has vowed to consider thinking about this issue, and says that he might actually be moved to deeming it worth caring about. There were massive protests all over the country as – no, wait, that’s the cat story again. Sorry for the trouble, and more later on these events.”
Mr. Weasley sat frozen in his armchair. A missing cat? The secret service? A missing cat? And something about West Virginia, not really important…
Mrs. Weasley came into the living-room carrying two cups of tea. It was no good. He would have to spit it out. He drooled into his cup nervously. “Er – Molly, dear – you don’t mind if I spit out the tea, do you?”
As he had expected, Mrs. Weasley looked shocked and angry. After all, they normally pretended that they could afford good tea.
“Yes,” she said sharply. “Why?”
“It’s, well, nasty,” Mr. Weasley mumbled. “It’s bland … watery … got bits in it … and I don’t really like tea …”
“So?” snapped Mrs. Weasley.
“Well, I just thought … maybe … I could maybe just … you know … spit it out.”
Mrs. Weasley sipped her tea through pursed lips. Mr. Weasley wondered whether he dared tell her he’d heard about a missing cat. He decided he didn’t dare. Instead, he said, as casually as he could,
“I don’t have to actually spit. Could I dump it out on a plant?”
“I suppose so,” said Mrs. Weasley stiffly.
“Where’s our plant again? Over in the bathroom, isn’t it?”
“We don’t have a plant. Nasty common things, if you ask me.”
“Oh, yes,” said Mr. Weasley, his heart sinking horribly. “Yes, I quite agree.”
He didn’t say another word on the subject as they went upstairs to bed. While Mrs. Weasley was dumping her tea out on a plant in the bathroom, Mr. Weasley crept to the bedroom window and poured his tea down onto the front garden. The rat became quite wet. It stared up at Mr. Weasley as though it were thinking of doing violent things to him.
Was he imagining things? Could all this have anything to do with his pouring tea on the rat? If she … if Mrs. Weasley found out that he had poured her tea out of the window – well, he didn’t think he could bear it.
The Weasleys got into bed. Mrs. Weasley fell asleep quickly, but Mr. Weasley lay awake, turning it all over in his mind. His last, comforting thought before he fell asleep was that even if Mrs. Weasley did find out, he could always blame it on the garden gnomes. The Weasleys knew very well what kind of mischief the gnomes got into … he couldn’t see how Molly could pin any conclusive blame on anyone. He yawned, and pushed his tea cup under the bed with all the others. It couldn’t affect him …
How very wrong he was.
Mr. Weasley might have been drifting into an uneasy sleep, but the rat on the wall was showing no signs of sleepiness. Tea dripped off it like pigeon poop off a statue, assuming that the pigeon poop was very runny, and the statue was ambulatory. It quavered quite a bit when something in a nearby town exploded, and when two owls flew overhead. In fact, it was before midnight when the rat stopped moving at all.
A man had appeared on the corner the rat had been watching, appeared so suddenly and silently you’d have thought he’d just popped out of the ground. The rat’s whiskers twitched and its nose eyes widened.
Nothing like this man had ever been seen in The Burrow. He was tall and thin and somewhat young, judging by the way he stood and walked. He had long, silver hair, but not long enough to tuck into his belt. He was wearing long robes, a black cloak which swept the ground, and buckled boots. His grey eyes were dark, cold, and menacing and his face was pale and pointed. This man’s name was Lucius Malfoy.
Lucius Malfoy realized that he had just arrived at a house where everything from his name to snake-headed cane was unwelcome. He was busy rummaging in his cloak, looking for something. But he seemed to realize he was being watched, because he looked up suddenly at the rat, which was still staring at him from on top of the wall. For some reason, the sight of the rat seemed to amuse him. He chuckled and muttered, “I should have known.”
He had found what he was looking for in his inside pocket. It seemed to be a camera. He flicked open the lens, held it up in the air, and clicked it. There was a little pop and a flash of light. A section of the burrow disappeared. He clicked it again – another chunk of the house was gone. Twelve times he clicked the button, until the only remains of the Burrow were the wall on which the rat was sitting, and a few gnomes. If anyone looked at them now, even Mad-eye Moody couldn’t have seen the house. Lucius slipped the camera back inside his cloak and set off towards the wall, where he sat down next to the rat. He didn’t look at it, but after a moment, he spoke to it.
“You’re wet, Wormtail.”

I couldn't keep up the sentence structure though the dialogue and still have it make sense, so I decided to cut things off here.

And by "things", I'm not referring to anybody's fingers.

Mini-Hogwarts

A couple of pieces I wrote for a Harry Potter roleplaying site that I was COERCED into joining. They needed a Harry, see. It fell apart a week after I joined due in no way to my spotlight-hogging. It's what Harry does.

Harry sat in the Griffindor common room, chewing a nib. It’s not like he was deep in thought or anything. He just liked the taste. It reminded him of home. At least, it would have, if he could remember what his home was like. His memories of his place of birth were hazy and sadly lacking in nibs. It was all hovering broomsticks, liquid foods, green light, high-pitched laughter, and dead parents. He missed said parents sorely, even though he had spent less than a year of his life with them and had not really developed any emotional bonds. A tear trickled languorously down his cheek and to the side of his mouth. Harry’s tongue shot out, drawing the wayward teardrop into the confines of his mouth just like Sirius had taught him. The tear was salty. He liked the taste. It reminded him of home.

----------------

Harry soared above the ground, exulting in the abrasive feel of the wind on his tender flesh. This was what it meant to be alive – the vaguely uncomfortable removal of his outmost layer of skin. Harry pitied the poor people who never experienced broom travel. They were like animals, really. They milled through their lives without ever truly living, then were slaughtered and converted into delicious meat products. At least, that’s what Sirius had said. Lupin had said that Sirius was lying, that he was just messing with Harry’s head. But Sirius was his godfather and Lupin wasn’t, so Sirius had to be right. He just had to be.

Harry tried not to think about it anyway. It always made him hungry.

Suddenly, there was a movement in the periphery of Harry’s eye. A figure swathed in black and gold was meandering towards the Quiddich pitch. Harry immediately recalled that old “wizard rhyme” Sirius sung him to sleep with: “Black and Gold will strike you dead. They’ll break your legs and smash your head. If you see those colors, you should flee. Or before too long, a corpse you’ll be.”

Thanking his imminently knowledgeable godfather for this nugget of wisdom (silently, of course), Harry turned tail and directed his broom to the behind a seat in the bleachers. He laid down, the better to conceal his scarlet and gold robes (“Scarlet and Gold will slice you up. They’ll make your skull into a cup.”) From this secretive locale, he could hopefully watch this new and possibly leg-breaking person unobserved.

---------------

How did the stranger know Harry’s name? Was he a servant of the dark lord? Harry raised his wand, determined to end this contest before it started. Against such a determined and deadly foe, Harry had no choice but to use an unforgivable curse. He would just have to deal with the consequences later. It’s not like he would be sent to Azkaban or anything. He was the boy-who-lived, after all.

“CRU–“ Harry began.

But wait. Harry recognized this assailant. Ashling or Usher or something like that. From Hufflepuff. Probably not a threat, unless he was imperiused. Harry would have to play it cool.

“–el of me to have hidden when I saw you,” Harry recovered, converting his hostile wand-stroke into a clumsy wave of greeting. “I just wanted to see how well you could fly. It’s too bad you’re not in Gryffindor. I’d like to see you on our team. You would make a fine chaser.”
It all depended on small talk. If they couldn’t make small talk, then they were under the Imperius curse. Harry sniffed at the air. Imperius or not, he was certain that something smelled fishy. No doubt about it – this “Hussar” fellow was involved up to his freckles.

----------------

Not imperiused, then. No-one suffering from mind control could scream like a baby in such an exemplary manner. That was certainly a weight off Harry’s mind.

On the other hand, there was the issue of the spooky roar. Harry would, of course, have to investigate. For all he knew, the roar could be a portent of great evil to come. And if evil was coming, Harry wanted to be in the thick of it.

He might need Cracker to help him, though, and people were woefully unwilling to rally round if dead. In Harry’s professional opinion, this reluctance to provide assistance from beyond the grave was a serious drawback to most people’s attitudes. So Harry would have to save Trucker’s life.

Flinging himself towards the bewildered keeper-wannabe, Harry shouted, “Get down!”

That's everything. The kid's name was Asher and he may or may not have been a Death Eater.

Dungeon Delving

In case you haven't noticed, I've been dumping a lot of stuff I've written in the past on this site. Don't be alarmed. It will all be okay. This particular item is one that I'd completely forgotten writing. It is based off my D&D group. We are highly functional. It changes tense halfway through, for which I am sorry.

“Are you ready for the adventure of a lifetime?”
The answer was, of course, no. Josh was experiencing intense video game withdrawl, Sharon was wondering when snacks would be provided, Trevor hadn’t finished making his character sheet, and Cooper was wondering if playing this game would deny him access to eternal salvation. The DM had been known to eat babies. Or at least rumored. Cooper had seen what looked like a rulebook lying around with the words, “Kobolds ate my baby” on the front, and made the natural connection. The point was, the DM would mess you up something bad if you didn’t agree with him.
So, naturally, they said yes.

They were plunged into a world of violence and beer. The scene was a tavern, the setting a bar fight. A hulking fighter and lithe man with a tiny sword were in a fight over some peanuts, and were, quite naturally, messing up the bar something bad. Guards rushed in, and the big man rushed upstairs to his room, while the little man dived over the counter to hide behind the bar. Seeing no-one else to arrest for this outrage, the guards blamed Rove, Trevor’s character, who had been sitting in the corner doing nothing because Trevor was assigning his skill points.

“What the hell is Survival anyway? That’s not a skill! If I throw someone off a cliff, do they get to make a Survival check? How about if I stab them? Why are Rangers so much better at not dying than other people? What happened to Wilderness Lore?”
“Stop complaining, Trevor,” sighed Sharon. “It’s not that big of a deal. It’s cross-class for you anyway.”
“3.5 Sucks!”
“You suck!” quipped Josh.
“No, you suck!”
“No, you suck!”
“Oh yeah? Well this is you, and this is 3.5!”
The DM interrupted Trevor’s hand gestures:
“You find yourself in a dark cell…”

Rove found himself in a dark cell. He looked around, but couldn’t find anything because he rolled a 2. He pricked himself with a sticker burr, then looked into the adjacent cell. He could easily see by the light from the street, and made out a woman in the adjacent cell.

“I thought you said it was dark.”

Rove really shouldn’t have gotten so close to those bars. Due to the warmth of the day, he took 1 damage from static electricity, and another for complaining about the first. After shrieking like a little girl, he took a closer look at his “prison-mate”. She had long, dark brown hair…

“I’m blonde!”

…blonde hair, blue eyes, and pale skin like the Nazi Aryan-supremacist bitch she is.

“I am NOT!”

She is.

“No, I’m not!”

Yes, she is.

“You’re a jackass, Brian!”

Oh no! The prison collapses on her, killing her instantly.

“This is retarded. I’m leaving.”

Rats eat her corpse.

Sharon got up from the table, taking care to knock the dice on the floor, and stormed out of the room. Cooper shot a disapproving look at the DM, then left as well. Trevor was too busy looking at the floor to notice anything. Josh looked at the door, at Brian, then back at the door. He scratched his head, then posed a deep question,
“What’s her problem?”

The rats didn’t know what her problem was, but they did know she tasted delicious. Meanwhile, Rove took 10, climbed out of the prison, and walked away a free man.

The Invigorating and Slightly Surreal Adventures of Medhi – Explorer Extraordinaire

Medhi taxied down the empty runway. The harsh equatorial sun beat down on the back of his neck, but he didn’t care. The sea breezes swirled his hair, filling his nostrils with the smell of salt. He dipped his right wing and veered hard to the left (Medhi was not very good with directions). Of course, he wasn’t in a plane. There hadn’t been a plane on Nauru since the bank had repossessed the small island’s last aircraft several months ago. For now, Medhi was the plane. He would soon stop, though. Running up and down the tarmac was tiring, even for a 747. Until then, he soared past the parliament building, the police station, and other such important structures. From an altitude of several thousand feet, Medhi peered down at the offices of Nauru’s struggling government.
Several minutes later, after the plane had been left on the runway, the great Spaceman Medhi landed his rocket on the moon. They had told him not to play in the phosphate wasteland, but great space explorers aren’t deterred by such negative attitudes. The twisted expanse stirred strange ideas in his head. Out here, in the wasteland, anything could happen.
Sadly, it didn’t. The intrepid space explorer Medhi spent a happy hour or so hiding from aliens until he became hungry. Technically he already was; people generally were on Nauru. He was just more so than usual. But, unlike most, he knew where to find food.
The camp had been established by Australia for asylum seekers (mainly Iraqi) several years back. The Australians had hung around until there was a riot then left the camp to whoever would take it, sending halfhearted shipments of comestibles when they bothered to remember. The asylumees quickly claimed administration of the camp, becoming, in effect, independent. This was not important, of course. What mattered was that security wasn’t tight enough to prevent a hungry nine-year old from swiping what food he needed. Good news for Medhi.
Even if his parents were still alive, chances are good that they wouldn’t have jobs. And even if they did, chances are good that they wouldn’t be paid. Foreign aid was the crutch that kept Nauru from collapsing on itself.
Medhi headed back to the Yaren district. Maybe a ship would arrive soon. Ships were always good because they sometimes had of supplies. Like clothes. Medhi needed a new shirt, his was torn and threadbare. The same could be said for pants. And shoes wouldn’t be bad either. He still had that cut on his foot from last week. It was getting black and icky. He reached down to pick at it some more. That always helped.
Sadly, no ship showed up. Medhi spent the rest of the day idling along the coast, looking out at the sea. It was strange. So much water, and yet it was not good to drink. That was something else he needed – fresh water. He sat on the beach and watched the sun set, imagining he was out there on a boat. After dark, he found his way to the ramshackle house that had served as his home for as long as he could remember. As he fell asleep, Medhi wondered if perhaps life could be better. No matter. He would be up bright and early to wander through the streets looking lost, then he roam among the coconut trees. Tomorrow was another big day.

The First Step In Beating Werewolves

I assume that all (or at least most) of you have seen the third Harry Potter movie. Now, according to "page three-hundred and ninety-four", Werewolves come out every full moon. Ha! We should be so lucky. No, werewolves can change into a wolf during any moonlit night. They are only FORCED to change during full moons, but most werewolves change every night. It's sort of like an addiction. You know, like some kind of perverted “wolf-crack.”

“But why would they do such things?” I hear you ask. And if I don’t hear you asking about werewolves, then you’re already as good as dead. I wish you luck. For those of us who wish to protect our essential right of life from these nocturnal lupine menaces, knowledge is essential.
Werewolves love the company of humans. Why? No-one is quite sure. Some speculate that this is because they were once human themselves, and long to shed their monstrous affliction. These people are wrong – DEAD wrong. All we can be sure of is that werewolves feel no guilt in their actions. They are not plucky antiheroes, maligned by society and forced to wander as outcasts; they are brutal animals, loners not by force but by choice. To werewolves, we are but another link in the food chain – a frail and easily subdued link. Like a sausage.
But I digress.
As I was saying, to werewolves, we are prey and they are our predators. The primal thrill of the hunt appeals greatly to these monstrosities, but they are usually smart enough to kill only one a month. Unlike many mammals, werewolves seldom need to eat, and can go for almost three months without food. Some scholars have speculated that they are in fact more closely related to reptiles/fish. The absence of gills/scales and the presence of hair tend to argue against this conclusion. But then, some dinosaurs had feathers, which are essentially hair, and look at them. If they were still around today, the human race would be in grave peril. Not that we aren’t. Werewolves have seen to that.

The worst thing about werewolves is not that they have giant claws and fangs, blend in perfectly with human society, can run at the speed of a horse, are utterly merciless, and can strike without warning. The worst thing is that they cannot be stopped by normal means. The tried-and-true method of the angry mob that has served us so well against the likes of zombies, golems, cave-people, ape-men, and widowed landowners who keep to themselves will not work. But do not despair, for werewolves DO have several weaknesses.
1. They can be spotted, with practice. Werewolves greatly prefer physical activities and other such pastimes that let them apply their natural strengths. They are generally highly arrogant and disdain all forms of technology. And I mean all forms. Werewolves generally prefer to walk than trust anything with wheels, and will rarely be found around such advanced things as trains and aircraft.
2. The transformation from human to wolf-form takes, on average, thirty-five seconds. Also, the instant the moon stops shining on them, they turn into a human. So, if you see someone turning into a werewolf, don't just stand there screaming. Run for the nearest moon-free area.
3. When werewolves are in human form, they are vulnerable to all things humans are, though they are extremely durable and have been known to survive all manner of what would be fatal incidents.

When in wolf form, very few things can harm them. And once the chase has started, werewolves will not stop until repelled or dead.
However, there are several ways to arrange for that happy circumstance:
• Silver: Silver is the most commonly known way to slay werewolves. Werewolf hunters throughout history have been known for using silver bullets (or daggers back in the good old days) to slay their quarry. Werewolf hunters throughout history have also been known for firing one shot at a wolf-creature, then getting ripped to shreds, shocked that their feeble attempt did not kill it. Use sense, people! Of course ONE bullet won’t kill a towering pillar of muscle, claws, and teeth! Plug it FULL of silver! Aim for the head! Don’t be stingy when dishing out silvered death! And don’t try to kill it with a silver spoon or anything like that. That couldn’t even kill a baby.
• Plants: Believe it or not, some plants can hurt werewolves. Poison ivy, poison oak, and nettles will agonize them, and can even slay them in great (if impractical) quantities. Cactus needles, thorns, sticker burrs, and other such spiny plants annoy werewolves and cause them minor pain. They can be used as distractions. Mistletoe will sometimes (about half of the time) repel them. Don’t count on it. Weapons made of mistletoe can be fatal to werewolves, so long as they would kill a human as well.
• Mercury: Mercury is death to werewolves. It melts their skin on contact, and is the ultimate weapon when fighting them. Always keep some handy.
• Venom: Venom from snakes and stinging insects hurts werewolves and forces them to return to human form. Ever wonder why beekeepers seldom fall victim to werewolf attacks? Now you know.

If you are bitten by a werewolf and are not devoured in a gruesome feast, you will turn into a werewolf in less than a week – a far worse fate – unless you do one of the following:
• Bathe in/swallow mercury.
• Eat mistletoe
• Coat yourself in poison oak/ivy or nettles. Don’t wash it off.
• Eat poison oak/ivy or nettles. (This might actually be worse than turning into a werewolf, and is not recommended. Ever.)
• Inject yourself with venom.
• Wear lots and lots of silver.

If none of the above is possible, suicide is recommended. It is better than becoming an abomination.
Also, the above methods are those for fighting single werewolves. Should you encounter a group of werewolves without easy access to a tub of mercury or a moonless spot, you’re screwed. Try to take at least one with you.

If you have read this, and you care about the well-being of your friends and family, alert them. Tell everyone you know. The first step in beating werewolves is knowing how to beat them. The second step is killing the bastards where they stand. Help humanity. Spread the word.