I was in the van.

And my clothes started itching.

I had that ridiculous getup on, and I was starting to feel a little upset.

I mean, I may have just said goodbye to Alyssa for the last time, I could be heading to my death, and here I was dressed like a clown posing for his "after" pictures from some goddamn weight loss infomercial, holding my tremendously oversized pants up so they wouldn't fall down?

It sucked.

"Comfortable?"

My host, I guess his fucking name was "Bruce," but he "went by many names" (douche) was leering over me, as Jeff, the most royal douchebag of them all was grinning away from behind the wheel of the van.

"Um...I guess."

I have a hard time dealing with difficult situations. I mean, I can DO it, but the fact is, I'm just one of the world's best "you know what I shoulda said" guys.

Like, for example, take when somebody comes into the store, and is renting a clear cut piece of shit. I mean, like, a mammoth turd of a movie, the kind of movie that in my heart, I know, that if this person spends 90 minutes of their lives watching this dog's abortion of a motion picture, that those are 90 minutes they are never getting back. I can see them, these people, as they step up to the counter with, oh- I don't know- anything directed by Joel Schumacher, say- with the exception of Falling Down, or maybe DC Cab, and I can see them, dying. I mean, like, I can see them- on their deathbeds, with their children rushing to their sides. The children know that this is the big one, and they know that Grampy has had troubles before and each time he goes down with something and heads to the hospital that this could be IT.

Grampy could really be gone this time.

No matter how great he was in his life, no matter how beloved he was, the great darkness comes for us all, sooner or later, and let's be honest, he lived a full life, and this might be his time. If only there wasn't this damn traffic. I had told Granny that I would be there by 3:45, and now would you look at this gridlock, it's pushing five already, and we're still 20 minutes away. I think of that old person, in his hospital bed, his children stuck in traffic, and all he can say is- "I don't fucking believe I used 90 precious minutes of my life....LIFE DAMNIT- LIFE! And why? So I could watch "Batman and Robin." WHY GOD......WHY?!!!!!"

I make a snide remark to the guy, and all of a sudden, I'm the asshole.

And so I don't say anything.

I just rent this guy this multi-million dollar budgeted diaper blast and let him go on with his day. But you know what I should have said? And this is where it gets good. I mean, I'm really good at what I should have said, but instead, I just said "Hey- take it easy" and then bust his balls when he leaves.

Oh, yeah. We DO do that by the way. Even if you're in a video store where the clerks are nothing but helpful and reserved, even in a video store where you have to wear some douchebag vest, and say things like "Can I help you find anything?" Even in those stores, those corporate idiot shack video stores, even there- if you walk up and rent Anaconda 2, the minute you walk out, that guy's calling you a douchebag.

It happens.

Don't fool yourself.

But I don't say anything. Then, five minutes later, I realize what I should have said. You know just to give them a warning- not to be a dick, or to belittle their intelligence, just something quick like- you look at the video as they are renting it and say "Wow. Did you ever see the original 1966 Batman movie? Cause, you know- this is really just going for camp, and that movie kinda does it SO much better." And, you know, give them an out. Not dictate what they MUST see, but just give them an out. And if you have to, throw in a "Yeah- I mean, do you need nipples on a batsuit? I mean- fuck."

And so it was in the van, speeding towards New Jersey, where I could have said something like, "You know what? I'd be a hell of a lot more comfortable if you could teach me that Jedi mind trick and I could get the fuck out of here and into a cage."

OK, that wasn't that great, but it's still better than "I guess."

I guess.

After we got out of the Lincoln Tunnel we kept driving, and I was nervous about the sun going down. Bruce wasn't. He checked his watch once and sensing my anxiety, I suppose, said "You have 54 minutes. Relax."

"So- where are we going?"

"To my town house. You will meet Jeff in the arena."

"Excuse me?"

"It will be combat. To the death. A full transformation and battle in a pit of sand. To the winner will go the title of protege"

"What?"

"Protege. To me. You will serve me completely. You're personal expenses will be taken care of entirely, you're training will fall to me, and you will master Lycanthropy as I have. When you're training is complete, and you are a superior master of the Lycanthropic arts, you will impregate a female and face me."

"You've got to be fucking kidding me."

I kinda nailed that one.

"We have arrived. Lars and Mickey will see you to your changing room. There you will prepare. When the hour is right, you will be brought out upon the field of battle, transform, and prove your worth. To the death. It is the only way."

"Fuck me."

He fixed me with a steady glare. "Fuck you, indeed."

Then he and Jeff started laughing.

As we pulled to a hault in the gravel driveway, the van doors opened, and two HUGE men grabbed me, and led me away.

I guess I was going to be in a werewolf fight.