- My sainted aunt! It's the virgins, come again for the monthly dose of tripe and twaddle! Oh the tragedy! Oh the ghastly doom! As you are bound by the fate prescribed for you as creatures of irritating character, so am I bound to be the pontificating prophet that pronounces pompously upon the ugly truth of your unspeakable nature and execrable existence. Last time we left you ravening through the forest with Pinkie and Perky at your side, werewolves one and all, transformed by the light of a ghastly Full Moon. Attend me now, my vile and bothersome virgins! Hear the vile and bitter prognostications for fearful February, as prognosticated by myself, Asperitus! Awful auspex and savage soothsayer!
And what do we find as the month begins? Predictably, we find ghastly planets farting in the cosmic winds. In this instance, their flatulence comes in idiot Aquarius and your solar sixth house, though marauding Mars still seethes and rankles in silly Sagittarius and your solar fourth house, consequent upon his meeting with the dark lord, underworld Pluto.
Thus we find you, my nitwit virgin types, bending over what appears to be a recent victim, the dark and shining fur now fading from your skin. Eek! You note the severe wounding at the throat. Aargh! Ye gods and little fishes! Despite your best intent to eschew the wild path (due to bloodstains and other alarming matters of personal hygiene), the beast in you has triumphed under the crazed glare of Lady Moon's necrotic light. You look down aghast, but realize there are signs of life within the hapless victim of your lycanthropy. As a New Moon comes in idiot Aquarius, you search the forest deeps wherein you are lost to find a glade where sunshine comes. There you pick wild daisies and make a poultice of them with witch hazel to dress the wound.
With Pinkie and Perky snuffling at your side, you carry the unconscious victim back to your mountain retreat, there to take upon yourself the restoration of that which your bestial form so nearly snatched away. Life itself! You lay out the wounded one and give such comfort as your healer's art can provide and such relief as suggested by marauding Mars now moved to the sign of the Goat (the victim being comely and properly laundered by your tender ministrations).
As mischievous Mercury wanders distractedly into Pisces and your solar seventh house, the wounded one begins muttering on the bed of healing sleep. You return the converse, wild and erratic as it is. All the talk, though delirious in nature, is of the fierceness and magic of the wild wolf! As the great Sol Invicti enters sorrowful Pisces, you realize a bond has been created with this one, a bond that must somehow be fulfilled.
And then, of course, as the mischievous messenger crosses swords with Uranus, the idiot god, you realize the most startling truth of all. If the wounded one survives, and doubtless will due to the virtue of your healer's art, she/he will also be a werewolf. Is that not how the thing is done? You wish now that you'd paid more attention in school to the tales of fantasy and superstition instead of reading all those tracts on the relative merits of washing powders and the lives of the saints.
Too late now! For now it is, my tiny twerps, that the wheels of Heaven screech as the cosmic gears grind and grip to set you on a new path. Cranky Chiron moves into lunatic Aquarius. Ye gods! Yet another planet in the dribbling sign of the idiot god! How many must there be? And, on top of that indignity, the Full Moon now comes in your sign. You look down. Your lycanthropic garb manifests upon the organ of your skin! So too does faint down appear on the skin of the sleeping wounded one. Pinkie and Perky snuffle anxiously as they grow before your very eyes into fell beasts. The cold realization comes home to you! Every time Lady Moon comes to the Full will you hunt and bring down a victim. Every victim you save (and that will be every one as you do not accept personal failure) will become a werewolf. Soon, the werewolves you have made will bring victims of their own and each victim you must save in accord with the irritating right-mindedness of your odious nature. Thus each of these will live to be a werewolf. How long will it be, my virginal ninnies, before the world and his wife are werewolves and your mission to better the world (genetically built into you) will turn to a nightmare dance of ravening supernatural beasts?
On that cheerful note, it's time to say farewell till next time, my tiny carping surface-wipers! But do keep a weather eye on the Moon! A haunted world of superstition lies within the boundaries of the White Lady's sepulchral glow, don't you know! Ta! Ta!