a werewolf bites the silver bullet

I'm pretty glad it happened, since it means I'm still alive and all, but I watched a werewolf die from alcohol poisoning on New Years Eve. My vampire roommate and I had counted down the remaining seconds of 2005 for Colorado residents, and we were at the front door, ready to head for a bar where we could watch the Times-Square time-delay broadcast tailored for our own time zone. Right as I'm opening the door, this hairy dude, obvious werewolf, rushes into our house, beelines for the bathroom, and pukes all over toilet. All over, none in, no aim: it is obvious this guy is in bad shape, and has fangs.

My roommate, despite the fact that he is ALREADY DEAD and shouldn't be afraid of werewolves, is shaking like Count Chocula going through sugar withdrawal, and while I voluntarily live with a vampire who wants to kill me, I'm not totally stupid, so I don't try to approach the goddamn wolfman who is hugging the toilet with perfect going-to-be-sick form. He's clutching the sides and peering into the bowl's brown eye like he can see the future, and his claws are absolutely tearing up the linoleum.

Anyway, we can't leave the house with this random dude inside, so I crack open the 36 pack of Coors Lite we were saving for a monster game of Baghdad (it's like Beirut, but... eh, tangent), and my roommate and I get to drinking. Wolfman eventually "finishes his business" and comes out. Without even hesitating, he grabs a can. We are speechless at the gall of this guy, but the guy is like 8 feet tall and snarling. So what did we do? Turned the TV back on, watched a post-stroke Dick Clark (um, I mean, Regis Philbin), and finish the Borg-cube of beers, plus our entire stock of tequila.

We all passed out around two, but while I woke up alive, and my roommate woke up dead, Wolfman was straight-up stone-cold. Coors really is the silver bullet. Taste the fucking Rockies, man.



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