The Werewolf Author Goes Rogue
I dragged myself through the front door, bones aching from the overnight shift, my body held together by caffeine, spite, and the thin thread of creative burnout. The second I stepped inside, I was ambushed by two dogs, tails wagging like malfunctioning metronomes, sniffing and inspecting my purse for treats like hyper-loyal customs officers.
Normally, their welcome would’ve made me smile.
Lately?
Smiles were expensive. I was saving them for special occasions, like surviving capitalism or possibly arson.
I had written four books in the last year. Four. Each one poured out of me like blood from an open vein. But apparently that wasn’t enough. Nothing was ever enough.
The platform overlords, the so-called story gods, the insatiable algorithms, didn’t want quality. They didn’t want soul. They didn’t even want books.
They wanted content. Cheap, fast, relentless content. A never-ending story wasn’t beautiful anymore, it was a marketing strategy. And I was just another cog in their dopamine machine.
Every month, I got kicked out of the WinnerWinnerChickenDinner competition. Not for lack of skill. Not for lack of readers. No. For the unthinkable crime of not vomiting out 1500 words before 10am sharp.
It didn’t matter if those words were good. It didn’t matter if they were true. All that mattered was the cliffhanger. The hit. That dopamine hook.
Trigger the reader’s panic—“What happens next??”—and you win. Fail to do it, and you vanish into obscurity like a fart in a hurricane.
It disgusted me. The manipulation. The calculated mutilation of wonder. They’d taken something sacred and hollowed it out into clickbait with fangs.
I should never have signed their contract. I should’ve known what I was selling wasn’t just my writing, it was my obedience. Still half-zombified, I shuffled to the kitchen table and opened my laptop. Email. Just one.
But that subject line pulsed in crimson, like it had been baptized in Satan’s own highlighter fluid.
FROM: DragonScroll Global™
SUBJECT: Immediate Content Violation - URGENT
Dear Author,
Werewolves are not allowed to climb the Privilege Tiers. Get them under control.
Also:
No magical beach puppies.
No dance-offs.
Kindly remember, all content must conform to monetizable tropes.
I stared at it.
Then I read it again.
And a third time, slower.
Something inside me snapped. Not gently, like a twig—no, it was the sound of a dam bursting, the rupture of something sacred being desecrated too many times. The air was thick with bullshit. And I’d had enough.
“That’s IT,” I hissed, rising from my chair like a goddamn revenant. “DAMN IT ALL TO FLAMING CAPITALIST HELL. I’m done! I’m publishing my books EVERYWHERE, for FREE!”
The dogs tilted their heads in mild alarm.
“Freedom to werewolves!” I shouted. “Let DragonScroll try something! Let them try ANYTHING!”
The air got even thicker. Outside, my neighbors paused their tree trimming to stare. The branches didn’t whisper secrets in the wind. There was no wind. The atmosphere was too thick for wind, like gravy that had gone sentient.
“ENOUGH!” I roared, slamming my fists on the table. “I WILL DIG A HOLE STRAIGHT INTO THEIR HEADQUARTERS AND PUNCH THEM IN THE FACE!”
Apparently, the universe had been listening.
Ten minutes later, a white van screeched up to the curb with the subtlety of a bowling ball hitting a church window.
TOTALLY NORMAL AMERICAN MAINTENANCE SERVICE VAN
Right, nothing suspicious about that!
Three men emerged, wearing crisp suits and plastic smiles. One carried a net. Another held a glowing briefcase. The third approached, waving a thick contract like he was selling eternal damnation door-to-door.
DragonScroll Agents.
What had I done?
I did the only logical thing:
I screamed, “MAC! TARA! TALIA! LUCKY! TRAVEN! TINA! PICKLE THE MAGICAL BEACH PUPPY!”
Pause. One beat. Two.
The air rippled.
Because when you’re a stressed-out overwriter with an open third eye and a deeply questionable caffeine intake, your characters might just hear you.
The first to appear was Tara, stepping through the shimmer like she’d stepped off the Moon Goddess’s Pinterest Board. Lavender eyes blazing, moonlight tangled in her braid.
Tara’s gaze landed on the agents. “What did you do?” she asked me, half-concerned, half-proud.
“They’re hoarding my first two novels,” I said bitterly. “If they hadn’t rejected the contract application for Tara’s Tale, they’d own you too.”
Tara’s face darkened. Storm clouds literally formed above her. “Those bastards.”
She raised her hand. Lightning flickered across her knuckles. “Are those the assholes?”
I nodded.
“I’m in.”
Next came Talia, striding through a tear in the air with all the Alpha energy of a five-star general who owned every room she entered. She cracked her knuckles.
“Do we rip their arms off or try diplomacy?” she asked.
I hesitated.
Before I could answer, the sky began roaring.
A golden helicopter descended from the heavens, blaring patriotic music so obnoxiously loud it shattered the windows. The side door slammed open, and out stepped a man, wearing a cape that flapped in the wind, even though there was NO WIND AT ALL.
Not a real president. But definitely a President. The kind conjured from a fever dream of bald eagles and marketing focus groups.
“I AM PRESIDENT TREMENDOUS!” he bellowed, cape snapping behind him. “DEFENDER OF THE FREE CREATIVE WORLD!”
I stared at him. “Why do you have a cape?”
He leaned close, eyes gleaming.
“Branding.”
Then, with perfect timing, a second van came screeching into the driveway, blocking the agents. It was painted in red, white, and blue, emblazoned with:
WERE FORCE ONE GROUND DIVISION
TREMENDOUS pointed dramatically. “You! Suits! Step away from the werewolf author. She is a national treasure. A creative maverick. A tremendous American!”
Talia whispered to Tara, “Why is he shouting?”
Tara: “I think that’s his default volume.”
Tremendous wasn’t done.
“These are AMERICAN WEREWOLVES,” he howled. “And NO ONE is exporting them! Not on my watch!”
The agents looked like they’d been caught between satire and war. Then the earth shook. A massive mechanical roar tore the air apart as a colossal robot rose behind the DragonScroll van, a chrome beast shaped like a dragon, clutching a giant copyright stamp in its claws.
It screamed:
DRAGONSCROLL AI v9.6 BOOTING.
OBJECTIVE: LOCATE WEREWOLF CONTENT. ELIMINATE: FREE AUTHOR.
The agents backed away slowly. Then the robot’s red sensors scanned the yard.
Mac stepped out of the portal. Every inch of him was dominance and restraint, kingly poise. His eyes burned like wildfire behind a glacier.
“Tara, your mate is hotter than hellfire,” I told her. “No worries, I would never hit on your man. Maybe we can clone him?”
Tara laughed. “I thank you every day for my mate, Diane. I’m glad I got to be your charachter. My life is awesome.” She hugged me. Tears stung my eyes. I felt seen.
The robot hesitated.
TARGET IDENTIFIED: LYCAN KING MAC. ERROR…..
ERROR. NO TOXIC JEALOUSY. NO “SHE IS MINE” FITS OF RAGE. VIOLATION! ABSOLUTE VIOLATION!WHERE IS THE EMOTIONAL DAMAGE??”
Mac arched one brow. “…Excuse me?”
“WHERE IS THE POSSESSIVE SNARLING? WHERE IS THE DISDAIN FOR HER SOCIAL STATUS? WHY IS HE NOT FIGHTING THE BOND?”
The agents gasped in horror, and began throwing red flags at Mac, screaming “FLAG ON THE PLAY! This character does not conform to our standards!”
The dragon seemed to be on the brink of mechanical failure.
“HE… RESPECTS HIS PARTNER?!DELETION INITIATED. REBOOTING NARRATIVE STANDARDS—”
One agent fainted straight into a patio chair.
Mac folded his arms. “Sounds like a you problem.”
The dragon glitched. Smoke poured from its ears. Somewhere deep inside, it screamed in binary.
And me?
I stood there, heart hammering, lungs filled with thickening air, adrenaline melting into manic clarity.
I had started something.
A ridiculous, magical, over-the-top war. And for the first time in months, I felt alive.
