The Skin Game

The Beast Must Die…

Turner howled, a wail of pain that came from deep inside him. He tried to tear at the Lougrou belt, to rip it off, but his hands ran like melting plastic, his skin growing darker, leathery. 

The three Goths had already made a quick getaway, but Crawford was too stupid. He stood gawking while Turner changed. 

Turner wasn’t a man anymore. His backbone curved, forcing his head lower to the ground — a head that slowly stretched and elongated as long fangs burst from bloody gums. Talons slid from under his fingernails, slithering, viscid, like a wet fart. 

Turner’s shirt split with a loud rip, and new muscles strained tight against the man’s leather jacket. Thick bristles of hair forced their way through his skin, the hands lengthening as the talons grew longer and knuckles popped. A long snout lifted in the air, sniffing. 

Crawford finally found his voice. “What the fuck is that thing?” 

“Just don’t let it hump your leg,” I said, and tried to sidle unobtrusively around the room.

I wasn’t given a chance.

Turner, or rather, the thing that had been Turner, shook off the last torn remnants of clothing, and leapt forward, straight at us…