Lycanthrope

'Son, to be a hunter, you need killer instincts - it's kill or be killed in this world,’ Father advised, looking down on his kingdom at all the tiny men running back and forth. Being young, I didn't understand, I buried my wolf skin, bone deep, in sleeping crevices, hoping never to feel the fur on my back, or the call from the moon. Father was successful, riding the stock market bareback, slaughtering weak Companies, slashing at ideals with merciless claws. What he couldn't annihilate he dominated into submission.

Twenty years later, destiny gripped my chest, the wolf skin surfaced, tightening around my shoulders, my inheritance running through my veins. Smiling, he handed over the Company with privy paw. Standing on the precipice of my kingdom, I barked at the secretary for more coffee, listened to the moon and craved my next victim.

'Son, you need to be more tough, you need killer instincts - it's kill or be killed in this world,’ I advised, looking down on my kingdom at all the tiny men running back and forth. My young son looked at me and smiled, stroking his fur and sucking his thumb. He takes after his grandfather.