First message sent at 11:01am: Second message sent at 11:35am: - It was late. WatfordTalk was writing up a piece for his Vital Werewolf publication. He'd been drinking, but hadn't had too much after a successful day - he needed to write this up. It was a profile and interview with the successful football manager, Otter. One word, if but one were chosen, describes him: intense. One aim, if but one were chosen, explains him: to win. An air of monasticism as well as industry pervades. Otter talks to me about his philosophy. ‘You have to put a priority on everything you do each day. If you don’t, you won’t finish it. If you enjoy your job, it isn’t work. It’s fun. If you detest going to work, then you’re looking for ways to beat the clock. I’d rather go to Cassiobury Park and do my thing, so to speak, than I would play golf. Golf is a fine sport, but it’s too time-consuming. I don’t have that time schedule.’ Then he talks to me about his mentality. ‘Everything we do is based on winning. I don’t care how hard you work or how well organised you are, if you don’t win, what good is it? It’s down the drain. You can have a tremendous game plan, but if you lose the game, what good was the plan?’ Why does he love to win so much? ‘One of the greatest things is to be in a changing room after a win. And be with the players and coaches and realise what’s been accomplished, what you’ve gone through. The rewards are not necessarily tangible. It’s the hard work and the agony and the blood and sweat and tears. When you lose, it’s a morgue.’ WatfordTalk decided that was enough for the night and turned off his desk lamp and put away his things. It was cold. Outside, simms was walking past Talk’s window, merrily slapping the air in front of him. “Who-toosh! Shah-boosh!” He was reliving the slaps he dealt out to the lifeless face of Cude. In a celebratory mood after a successful lynch, simms had had a fair few jars in the Tavern last night and could barely see a yard in front of him. Still, he managed to get himself home. If only he’d’ve been a little more inebriated though. Camped out by his front door was the unmistakable silhouette of a werewolf. One colossal slap was all that was needed, and simms’s head was swept clean off his shoulders as his front door key was turned. simms was GOOD. simms was dead. Back at the Tavern, Otter was fast asleep on the bar. He had been discussing set plays with the landlord, Jellyman. Jellyman had kept the bar open all night following the success of Day 1. It was almost dawn now, and Otter was the last man in the bar – Jellyman was upstairs asleep, and everyone else was stumbling home or tucked up in bed. Otter was welcome to stay the night, he had done this many a time after a game of football was won. After a loss, Otter was inconsolable and would trudge straight home, but after a win, he would pore over every victorious detail and fine-tune the next game’s tactics with the drunken merrymakers in the Tavern, often falling asleep against or even on the bar after one too many pints of porter. In Jellyman’s drunken stupor, he had left for bed without locking up, and two beastly figures were darting up the road towards the Tavern. On their way, they caught a glimpse of each other and stopped for a moment. One grunted, the other nodded, and with that they charged through the door, left ajar by the sozzled landlord, towards Otter. Otter was snoring. The wolves looked at one another once again as they carefully moved the bar stools out of their way, and this time they both nodded. One wolf grasped Otter’s nose, the other held his mouth shut tight. As Otter awoke, panicked and unable to breathe, the wolves began to shake gently as they chuckled. There wasn’t much sound, Otter couldn’t find anything to grab onto in his struggle to stay alive. Jellyman had cleared the place before bed, and the bar was spotless. Otter tussled and turned and grabbed at air, and then he was still. His eyes protruded from their sockets – they looked bloated with terror. The wolves dropped him, and ripped off a leg each. It was a ghastly sight. As the wolves walked back out through the Tavern front door, they flung Otter’s legs onto the football pitch on the village green. Two pieces of leg meat, barely recognisable as human, strewn across the technical area in front of the Home dugout. With A Smile would be devastated – a muddy grass verge from the L*t*n team bus and now a clean up operation needed at pitchside. There would be much paperwork to be filled out. Otter was GOOD. Otter was in pieces. Elsewhere, the Guardian sat hiding in the bushes outside darave8’s house. He got very cold, regretted the decision to stay there all night, and sloped off home as the sun rose. The Cassiobury Chronicle front page looked a little bit like this: VILLAGE FC VICTORIOUS OVER SORRY EXCUSE FOR FOOTBALL CLUB SPECTATOR MISCONDUCT MARRS FINAL SCENES, AS CUDE>2< SCORES A GLORIOUS HATTRICK, ONLY TO BE PUMMELLED INTO THE EARTH MINUTES BEFORE FULL TIME BY PITCH INVADERS. Are the Wolves back? – Slavisa Jokanovic nowhere to be seen, but sources close to the Serbian have told the Chronicle that he has simply returned to Madrid to see his family. Photograph of dead Jokanovic seems to suggest otherwise. More to follow… Villagers have been urged to remain calm by the Mayor, 352. 'We simply do not know if the wolves are back. I think some people have a tendency to get a little over-dramatic to be honest. It could be anything.'