New Fiction #4

No one gets werewolves right. That bothers me. No one even bothers to look up their real origin. Especially Patricia Briggs, she wrote in one of her books that werewolves were an European invention so only Europeans can be werewolves. That sounds a lot like white supremacy. I've been boycotting her since mostly because she did no real research. Real research will take you back between 2700 BC and 2500 BC when the Epic of Gilgamesh was written in Mesopotamia (now part of Iraq). The story goes according to the Epic, that a poor farmer was in love with the Goddess Ishtar and traveled to her temple to declare his love. Furious that he was poor, Ishtar turned the man into a wolf, you know the actual canine, and cursed him to only return to human form on a full moon. Now this Epic is the oldest on this living planet and far surpasses the Catholic versions we've come to know from the 1700s. Catholics got the story wrong.

The creatures we think as werewolves, aren't even werewolves, their humbabas which comes from Persian mythology. Werewolves should be from wherever real wolves live, China, Central Asia, Europe, US & Canada, etc.

So I have this werewolf character named Gilgamesh who's a descendant of the man Ishtar turned into a wolf but the wolf bite is highly transferrable so now he has an entire world of hiding werewolves. This particular chapter is a rough draft of Gil's life isn't finished, and deals with an enigmatic immortal man who wants to end his immortality.


 Gilgamesh the King of Wolves recently added the Damaged Wolf to his Brotherhood Pack but due to his being damaged, he would have to stay within the Pack House until Gil felt he was able to live on his own. He was something the centuries old King had never encountered before. 
He was immortal but he didn't come from the immortal races. He sought out Gil to end his immortality. No one had ever done that. Gil was interested enough to take in the pup. 
He was 5'8" approximately, he had a build that wasn't made by lifting weights in a gym and being conscience about it. His eyes and hair were dark with small splashes of grey to accentuate his age. He had two names but purposely chose the fake one over his real one.
He called himself and allowed others to only call him Darius Riga.  
He wore a long green thermal shirt and black jeans, his hair was loose falling to his back and looked uncombed or as combed as it was possibly going to get. Autumn in New England could be very cold just as it could be very warm. That day was a good 49 degrees Fahrenheit. Darius didn't drive cars, he didn't know how so it was up to Gil to bring him to the University where he worked as a professor of ancient history. 
His class was an elective and was only taken by students needing the extra credit, he felt insulted by that. 
During his own lunch break, he sat at one of the tables in the teacher's lounge with a bottle of water sitting in front of him as he reached into his jean pockets to remove the plastic pill bottle. His colleague asked him about it, it wasn't allowed for students to pop pills on campus nor the professors.
"I have Antisocial Personality and Dissociative Personality Disorder, the medication is non optional. I have to take them." He answered popping one of the pills for his Antisocial Personality Disorder in his mouth then chasing it with the water. 
His colleague watched with interest, "what is Antisocial Personality Disorder? Sounds like something all teenagers have." She huffed out with a laugh then became demure after realizing she might have offended him.
"It's known as sociopathy. Means that I like gambling too much and have a hard time trying to understand why other people are important." He looked away not that he was ashamed of his condition, he had nothing to be ashamed of. His colleague thought it over, so he was a couple steps away from being a psychopath so luckily he was taking medication to control it.
The Dissociative Personality Disorder was formally called Multiple Personality Disorder, she asked about that but made sure he knew that he didn't have to answer her if he felt uncomfortable. It was fine, he'd answer.
He put his hands to his own chest, "this personality here is Darius but not the original. You don't want to meet the original guy," he smiled.
He went back to class after lunch to further instruct his students on ancient cultures while debating tons of off topic subjects as well. He knew his English wasn't the best but he communicated his lessons well enough. He stayed even after the students left to head to their next class then left several minutes later.
He waited outside for Gil to pick him up from the University, he pulled out his Karelia Royal cigarettes and lit it with a match rather than a lighter. His Karelia Royal was for every day use, his Sobranie Black Russians were for special conditions although he preferred smoking from his hookah pipe. 
Gil pulled up to bring the man back to his house where he dropped off the chain smoker. 
Dylan, one of his students, wandered back into the lecture class to check his seat for his pen, it must have fell out of his pocket and he only had one pen on him. He found it on the floor, muttering a curse to himself he picked it up but didn't leave, instead circled around the professor's desk out of curiosity to discover a plastic bottle on the ground.
He couldn't believe the name he was reading on it, Darius Riga, his professor had real psychiatric problems and the pills in the bottle would be worth a lot. He pocketed the bottle with intentions of selling the medication inside.
At eight, Darius reached for his medications to find one missing. He searched his small bedroom in case he dropped it. He searched the entire estate for it to no avail. He inhaled a deep breath, he would be fine if he didn't take it for a day. What was the worst that would happen?
He ate with Esther, the caretaker of Gil's estate while concealing the fact that he lost his medication. The first day without it, he felt fine, normal, that night he began to feel a bit depressed but as the long night dragged on he realized his beloved wife was dead. Tears began to stream down his face as he recalled that his son was also dead. 
He didn't get any sleep, his eyes were bloodshot at work.
He missed them. His wife, his son and his sister, hell, he even missed his brother, that asshole. 
He lamented their passing.
The second day his depression deepened until it became slight intolerance towards everyone else. On the third day he sat at the white table in the teacher's lounge with his arms outstretched, his fingers flexing in his attempts to retain control. He could feel himself slipping into dark places that he didn't want to revisit. 
He was a terrible person in his past, all those centuries ago. He was born a patrician but became a pirate when the opportunity rose and the life he lived wasn't a child's pirate tale. He was a murderer, he was a thief and on occasion, a rapist, but he always made money. He had over 80 ships in his fleet when he retired and he retired a very wealthy man as did all of his crew. 
He was never just a pirate, he was a business man who built trade posts and harbors across Europe, Africa and Asia. He raised armies and conquered lands but his name had been forgotten by history and was regarded as a myth. 
He looked for his name in history books but only found small tidbits, his ships and treasure were never found so historians disregarded him. Those ignorant bastards. He kept his eyes shut as he clenched and unclenched his fists, his intolerance of ignorance and children was turning to anger that he couldn't control. 
He sucked in a breath as his colleague touched his hand, asking if he was okay. He opened his eyes to stare at her hand on top of his, he raised his narrow dark eyes to view hers. She jumped back, there was a different man looking back at her, a dangerous one. She let his hand go. "No...I'm not all right. I lost my medication......" He admitted then stood up and walked out to his last class.
"I'm feeling a bit short of temper, ladies and gentleman, so don't provoke me." He leaned over his desk with a feral smile, then slammed his fist against the metal thing to gauge their reaction. "We were on ancient Greek society. Tell me what you know and go. Just shout out the answers. Come on." 
He waited for some brave soul to say something.  
Kevin, an open Pagan, slightly raised his hand, "boys began learning virtues and wrestling from older men at the age of seven."
"Yes." He signaled for more with his hand.  
Throughout the lesson, Dylan watched his professor closely, he had the man's medication in his dorm room. He had been selling the pills individually and mutliple ones for a steep price. He made fourteen hundred dollars alone off of 15 pills. He thought about telling the older man that he had it but decided against it. His teacher's lost was his gain. 
After class he lit his Karelia cigarette and walked to Gil's house despite the whipping cold wind that blew the beautiful red, gold and brown leaves around the dirty roads. He needed time to himself.
When he reached the house, he re-searched it for his medication. Not being able to find it, he shut himself in one of the bathrooms, confused, he turned on both the taps as he scrubbed his face. He stared at himself in the mirror unable to recognize the long hair and beard, he felt his head become fuzzy as his surroundings suddenly became foreign. Where was he?
Supreme anger flowed through his veins as he grabbed his shears to shave down his beard. When it was a heavy stubble, he began to cut away his long locks. He always cut his hair himself, he rarely allowed other people to do anything to his head. He kept at it silently until it was short. He ran his hand through his hair. 
Leaving his stray follicles all over the bathroom given to him for his private use, he grabbed his jacket but stared at the gun resting inside one of the dresser drawers. He wasn't sure if he would need it but took it anyway. His behavior had taken a turn for the worst while out of the school. He became a short fuse lashing out at Gil and everyone else.