Werewolves in Their Youth

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I HAD KNOWN HIM as a bulldozer, as a samurai, as an android programmed to kill, as Plastic Man and Titanium Man and Matter-Eater Lad, as a Buick Electra, as a Peterbilt truck, and even, for a week, as the Mackinac Bridge, but it was as a werewolf that Timothy Stokes finally went too far. I wasn’t there when it happened. I was down in the ravine at the edge of the schoolyard, founding a capital for an empire of ants. “Now, of course, this right here, this lovely structure, is the Temple of El-bok,” I explained to the ants, adopting the tone my mother employed to ease newly-weds through the emptied-out rooms of the depressed housing market in which she spent her days. I pointed to a pyramid of red clay at the center of a plaza paved with the crazy cross-hatching of my handprints. “And this, naturally, is the Palace of the Ant Emperor. But, ha ha, you knew that, of course. Okay, and over here”—I pointed to a sort of circular corral I’d formed by poking a row of sharpened twigs into the ground—“all of this is for keeping your ant slaves. Isn’t that nice? And over here’s where you milk your little aphids.” On the heights above my city stood the mound of an ordinary antville. All around me the cold red earth was stitched with a black embroidery of ants. By dint of forced transport and at the cost of not a few severed abdomens and thoraxes I succeeded in getting some of the ants to follow the Imperial Formic Highway, a broad groove in the clay running out the main gates of the city, up the steep slope of the ravine, and thence out into the tremendousness of the world. With my store of snapped-off ant body parts I pearled the black eyes of El-bok the Pitiless, an ant-shaped idol molded into the apex of the pyramid.

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