- Greeting, surface-wiping persons! We shall not dilly-dally. We shall not shilly shally! We shall instead hie us straight to the vile and bitter prognostications that pertain to the month of jittery January.
Last time, we left you in the process of becoming a beast of supernatural legend. A werewolf at the Full Moon! This time we return to find you asleep in your bed with little Pinkie and Perky at your side. As unspeakable planets congregate in your insufferable fourth house, this domestic tranquillity stands in marked contrast to the mood of fierce and wild abandon of doleful December. There you swore, as a werewolf, to take your revenge upon a ghastly and unforgiving world that put your Luddite movement to travail through fire and the sword. It was all very moving. Intoxicating really! But now that you awaken, you shiver with virginal fright at the very thought of tearing out the throat of some poor creature, no matter how misguided. I mean, what if they didn't wash properly or used some exotic kind of soap to which you were allergic?
Great gods alive and dead, how could you take such a risk as that! You'd have to give them a good sniffing first, just to check that everything was all right and that would never do in a bestial attack. No! By my little brown bottle, it wouldn't! Thus as ghastly planets waft into gruesome Capricorn and the New Moon comes in the same hideous sign of the Goat, you decide that you will enjoy just the romance of the wild, without the throat-tearing and bestial feeding that goes with it. After all, you have a good formula for getting bloodstains out, but will it work with fur?
So there you lay with your darlings, carnally embracing the wild but eschewing any campaign of supernatural vengeance to be visited upon a naughty world. As the great Sol Invicti enters idiot Aquarius, you decide to cultivate an orchard in your mountain retreat. You begin to lecture the nearby birds on the standards you expect them to maintain. The wild is all very well but you can't be expected to eat fruit that has been pecked by avian creatures that defecate indiscriminately whilst in midair or sitting on branches. You begin to dig the soil to plant the seedlings but a nasty breeze springs up.
Odds bodkins, my tiny whining things! It doesn't look good. By my sainted aunt, it doesn't! For you've forgotten all about the legend of the werewolf. It's the Full Moon, in loathsome Leo if you have to know the ugly truth. Aargh! The very moonlight seems to pierce you through. Eek! Primordial currents from the earth herself rise up into your body! Shriek and double shriek! And that's just how it is, my virginal improprieties! You shriek your bestial horror into the gathering night and look down to find you are once more a ravening beast of the supernatural kind, one who cares not a jot for bloodstain formulae and allergies to soap. With Pinkie and Perky at your side, you race into the darkness of the nearby forest with a roar to loose the bowels of the world's most constipated man, no matter how much re-fried food he eats.
Holy arcane chicanery! I cannot bear to continue (even though this isn't the end of the month). I will have to lie down and calm myself with anaesthesia and sleep! Ho, medics! Bring me my silver tube. As to you, click here next month and I'll see if I can steel myself to write another chapter of this appalling and seemingly endless saga. Ta! Ta!
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