Apologies for the late start. I would love to have a good excuse, but I don't. It won't be like this without notice again. * The fog hung over yesterday’s morning. Summertime had almost arrived, but it didn’t feel like May. The village had seen its hard times in the past, and was reliving its most recent tragedy in the local paper. Abso was publishing the diaries of one of the wolves that tore through the community this time last year, in a serialised piece in the local paper, the Cassiobury Chronicle: “…I wait until he’s seen my teeth glint in the moonlight, wait until he’s seen the full length of the nail gun in my gloved hands. He screams. “Perhaps in instinct, perhaps from memory, nisman94 makes a futile dash for the front door, crying out. Though the chardonnay has dulled his reflexes, the Scotch I’ve drunk has sharpened mine, and effortlessly I’m leaping in front of him, blocking his escape, knocking him unconscious with four blows to the head from the nail gun. I drag him back into the living room, laying him across the floor over a white Voilacutro cotton sheet, and then I stretch his arms out, placing his hands flat on thick wooden boards, palms up, and nail three fingers on each hand, at random, to the wood by their tips. This causes him to regain consciousness and he starts screaming. After I’ve sprayed Mace into his eyes, mouth, into his nostrils, I place a camel-hair coat from Ralph Lauren over his head, which drowns out the screams, sort of. I keep shooting nails into his hands until they’re both covered – nails bunched together, twisted over each other in places, making it impossible for him to try and sit up…” Vital Werewolf is a website set up by WatfordTalk, and they were running a series criticising the publication of the wolf diaries in the Chronicle, claiming that the village needn’t drag up its gruesome past: “I think it’s a kind of black cynicism about today’s world that Abso and certain others depend on for their readership. Look, if the contemporary condition is hopelessly ***ty, insipid, materialistic, emotionally ******ed, sadomasochistic, and stupid, then I (or any writer) can get away with slapping together stories with characters who are stupid, vapid, emotionally ******ed, which is easy, because these sorts of characters require no development. Actually promoting real-life characters who are stupid and vapid – and gruesome – is hopelessly ****ty and insipid, and encourages lycanthropy and meaningless murder. “If readers simply believe the world is stupid and shallow and mean, then Abso can write a mean shallow stupid piece that becomes a mordant deadpan commentary on the badness of everything. Look man, we’d probably most of us agree that these are dark times, and stupid ones, but do we need journalism that does nothing but dramatise how dark and stupid everything is?” Meanwhile, the village itself was alive with chatter about the following week being the one-year anniversary of the last werewolf attack, and though the conversations grew wearier and made less sense the later it got in Jellyman’s pub, the villagers were concerned to the point of fanaticism, and the pub became a kind of forum for theories and proposals for keeping safe in the future, and meting out revenge in the coming weeks for last year’s spate of killings. wfcmatt sang songs about the moon late into last night; nairobi hornet patrolled the streets, quietly trembling; sonofben stayed up all night researching Defunct v. Hectic, a landmark wolf case that he feared he may have to refer to in the coming weeks in court; Harrow Orn got no business, as more and more villagers now preferred the communal safety of the pub over the dingy anonymity of the brothel; and Cude>2<, well, his cat behavior consultancy business more or less remained the same (it had been floundering for several years). This morning wfcmatt was joined by the local drunkard, Optimistichornet. They sang a Cassiobury classic as the sun rose… “Ighalo-OH! Always believe in your soul, you’ve got the power to know, you’re indestructible… Always believe in!” The sun rose, but the air was black. Daft Row and nornironhorn were on their morning ‘run’, staggering past these two revelers, trying to exercise their way over their hangovers, when they saw it. There, nailed to the frame of the front window of the village shop, was Slavisa Jokanovic. His heart lay on the floor in front of him, and scrawled on the window in blood were the words, “ANOTHER YEAR, ANOTHER BIT OF FUN.” The werewolves were back. * Anonymous messages and the Seer's viewing request should be sent to firstname.lastname@example.org. Voting for the lynch closes at 8pm sharp this evening. Anyone who fails to vote risks an unseemly death tonight... Thank you.