We stood side by side in the morning star of a Parisian streetlight just then, lucid Lucifer and myself. Side by side, like brothers allied in the war against mortality and morality, two things neither of us cared for, we saw fit to coat debauchery's city of lavish delight in our flamboyant favorite of crimson. Tonight I was the only one of us who stood dressed in the color of passion and pyro. My dear Old Sooty had chosen a garb of the more pellucid hue, but anyone who'd been on the street just then would tell you the devil stood amongst them.

Hand at my side, I don't stutter in saying that the red clinging to my fingertips was neither my own nor unintentional, as many good folk accidently glancing over these first horrifying bits would prefer it was. As it dripped off the thin-stick porcelain digits of your beloved narrator and back onto the stone street that lay beneath my fine white and red dress shoes (In fact, I remember the entire suit quite vividly. It is my favorite to do this sort of business in) I heard the sound of crimson tip and the glorious gory tap in time with the vicious hunter's gulumpy-thumping of my own over pleased cockles in my head as well as my ribs. A twitch of the thumb and middle digit in order to rub the liquid life between them was called for. Tempted to raise them to my lips, but with the thought that in the way my head was swimming I would miss and smudge it on my face,

I decided against it. Hot ichor, being as seductive as it is, would sill have to linger on my hands and my street alone, for I would have to be back to the office that evening and, according to memory, my wash jug was still empty. As intent as I was in mind on the finger blood, I could not quite wrench my oculars from the fountain out of which it once sprang, but now only dribbled. That's the pity with this make of fountain. Gorgeous while it lasts, but so brief. Just a spitting red orgasm belching forth from split throat flesh and then came the abrupt caving of the cadaver fountain and the rest of the show was just the spreading of a sopping ooze puddle. Always leave them wanting more.

Tip-gory-tap.

Well, having taken my fill of rendering wolf to spook, I thought it time to be on and about it. Bit of a walksie it would be back to my office and I was no longer in the mood to run. As I turned and heard the lovely clickity of my shoes over the stone I contemplated that if the Whites found them that died then they'd be to worrying about it, and we wouldn't have to, for my good Europ-heathen brothers and I would be long gone. Beloved droogies. I flinked their furry faces as I walked by. Growling their own slimy, salivous pleasure, many of them snapped and cracked their way back into their camouflage and again dawned their yob masks. Any white worth the skin they occupied could have pin pointed it as our fault if they'd seen us moving in a pack. Snarling hell hounds and the littered limbs of their known rivals, and so far as they were concerned we'd be guilty as soon as any drop of blood hit the street. We knew it best to split up.

I was never concerned that I would be the easiest to identify and follow. It is my opinion that ever proper gangster should wear a zoot suit. We owe it to the yob's perceptions. I have seen the old cartoons in which debauchery is represented by both wolf and zoot suit. I have knelt at the shrine to King Capone and would believe in the traditions he gave us. Being that I have always been partial to red, naturally mine is. I moved like a beacon or a great red portentous emblem of death. The omen of the Parisian infection. A regular Red Shuck, but no white would ever dare to follow me through the somber silent blackness that settled.

Winding away through the street in my serpentine satisfaction of a good night's business gone bad, I slithered up into the windmill that set the wondrous whirling heart of the Paris underworld. There I coiled in my chair of properly padded mahogany and horror show design. I saw the likes of her once in a Shakespearian play, and since moved it into my office. Designed after the Curule Chair used by Roman magistrates, it only had two legs, but they were thick. As thick as the seat, in fact, as the shape of the chair overall is that of a well rounded hour glass with neither a top lid nor a bottom. It is called a cross frame style chair. On the back of it was a length of wood. The wood sloped down but rose to a medallion like circle in the middle, and here I'd had hand carved the Full Moon Mafia crest, the tribal image of the wolf face.

Now behind me on either side was a long window with a wooden cross. Transparent red curtains that were normally closed hung to the inside. Before me, as I would sit in this chair, was the great antique style mahogany desk. It was not weathered nor unattractively worn, as an antique, and had clawed canine feet to suggest the wolf workmanship. Upon the desk sat a lamp with a marvelous stained glass shade on a wooden base, and on the same side as that was an old phonograph which I had kept in working order. Over the desk at any time could be scattered papers or letters. That day the desk was not particularly littered; there were only three letters.

The entire office floor was made up from midnight heart cypress, a fine, dark wood, baring a slight resemblance to mahogany, which I chose personally to floor my office. I was, as well, present to select each and every single slat of the wood that they lay for my floor. On the burnt sienna before my desk lay my most recent rug. Not the manner of rug I more usually utilized for office business, this rug was of a wolf skin. A platinum wolf he was once. White underside but turned silver on the top, save for he had a black streak on his back and black tips on his ears and great curling black claws, which I'd had polished. If my memory serves me, the streak on his back would more appropriately have been yellow. As yellow as those marbles that I'd got him to pick out in his human form while he was still alive. Ones that he thought matched his wolf's eyes. I'm not a particularly sneaky person. He'd known he was to be made a fixture in my office for the things he had done, and because he did not run but had stayed to shake hands with Grim I had killed him swiftly and painlessly. I had not skinned him alive, as I might have if he'd caused me the headache of having him drug back after fear took him and he'd fled. I do not always agree with a brother's conduct, but that they do what they do with honor, that is most important to me. He had been brave, and so his yellow eyes and open maw faced the fireplace. Over his teeth and selected eyes glimmered the dancing rapture of flame and offered his carcass its own lively image. The pirouetting pyrus that spun wonders about in the stone fireplace I'd insisted be put in my office, for if I was to spend a great amount of time up here thinking then it was going to be required that I have my maelstromian muse. It was a great open mouth of round stone with a hearth which had never been jumped upon nor scarred by the iridescent imps of the imprisoned inferno. Above it a mahogany mantel that held some of my more prized personal effects, the most important being a sledge hammer that sat in the holders which would normally hold such things as a prized antique sword. Oh, but this was my beloved hammer. Her long lumbering bay shaft and petite yet devastating iron head.

Never, in all my years in the business, had a speck of blood gotten on my hammer.

On the mantel were a number of hats. My fine red zoot suit hat, when I was finished with it, had a rack here. A pin stripe zoot suit hat, a black hat with a very large and floppy brim to cover the face, a rack on which I could hang my goggles should I be in the room long enough to feel safe separating from them. Between the hat racks there were ash trays. I did not smoke ciggy-wiggs at the desk but would rather be up and pacing when I smoked, so it only made sense to put them on my mantel rather than my desk, although I had recently given thought to putting one there too. Perhaps one of my papers would bump a butt and I would have the brief good fortune of an accidental fire.

In amongst the hats was a picture. The greatest picture I could ever have hoped to have in my possession. It sat in a frame of diamond cut gold, and was nothing of particular splendor to any but me. A French castle of massive size. Grounds of a splendid emerald green, and a lovely white gravel walkway up to the big old building. In the shape of a U, only more square. Many windows of all sizes, petite to massive. Huge doors and every old world touch. I could not even describe it to you from a picture, my readers, but this was Lillium Lupus. My home.

Going back to the letters that were left on my desk by Robespierre, the owner of the Moulin Rouge. The first two were of no real consequence. Financial business, which did not interest me at the moment. One can not combine the thrill of the hunt and the tedium of finance all in the same evening, and for now I would rather cool down from the boiling hot of blood. I wasn't allowed though. Non, not with the information I received in the third letter. Courtesy of a kindly concerned canid came news to me of a deeply upsetting nature. Oh oui, deeply disturbing news, my good readers. At first it did not seem all bad. Flattering in fact. After my years in the business and the devastation I've inflicted, the control, the scheming, the plotting, the lies, the lives, the ruin and all that other brilliant business. After all that, they were writing a biography on me. Well, I've no need to tell you that I was flattered. Who wouldn't be? Shortly on in the letter though, my mind was changed. Not even by the who that it was to presume their self worthy of taking down the notation of my life did my infuriation come, non, but by what they were. A yob! A stinking yob, of all things, thought it could tell me right. It was even some geezlie yob, who'd gotten his withered old fingles on my history through the Organization for the Eradication of the Inhuman and their whites, I'm sure. People whose job it is to cage, resocialize, de-wolfize, or simply destroy my kind, and myself especially, are not going to paint me a portrait the likes of which I deserve, dearest amis. They'll put wrinkles and creases where there are none at all, and shadows to make it appear that my nose is too big or my forehead dry. Before you knew it, I'd be fat, balding, ugly, snarling, and a brute. The perfect portrait of a failure to the human model, and an easily hated monster. You must believe me my dearest of amis, that it isn't so.

I sat back in my chair with the cross bar pressing my lower back, and slowly reached over to grasp the needle of the phonograph between my claws. I lifted it delicately and placed it to the spinning record the same way, having already flicked the base switch to turn it on with that long, lavish tail of mine. I'd felt, in the instant of seeing my image as that yob would paint me with his words, that I should need to hear Patti Page inform me of her shirking sunshine in favor of evening delights, least I be ill. Patti, or Mrs. Page, as I'd never settled on how formally I should know her, may have been able to abandon all the world for the favor of her 'baby' but I could not. I looked to my dear mantel hung hammer for a long and weary moment. Then to the yob's name. Yet, as I looked at the letter I longed to be reassured that my image and all that I have done with myself would be known, for I'm proud of it. I'm quite vain by times. I would much have liked to have the yob brought in, but then where would that have left me? Is an unflattering portrait not better than no portrait at all?

Non, I shant concede. I cannot.

I stood, thinking I should begin now the problem solving pacing that would ease from my mind this burden. I did. Meanwhile professed to kiss and kiss and kiss and kiss. Then to, perhaps, kiss and kiss some more.

"A biography," I testified to an audience of hats, a hammer and some giddy fire sprites, "is no manner in which to tell my life."

I still now believe that. Clearly I do. My life can not be so summed up by dates. Not by the things I did in school, nor my time in the throw-away children's home. Non, dear readers, my life is not to be told by facts, figures, or events the likes of which yob's would have. Only I know what, through the years, has been of impact to me. What is it that really got under my flesh and what it is that hoisted me to where I am. Is that really the most important part? Is it not also important why I am here? Why ever, Geoff, did you work for -this-? What made you so crazed and what makes you crazed still? Why do you desire such a position as such a species in such a place as Paris?

"What is Geoff?" I requested of my hammer whilst lightly running a claw over her lustrous iron. "What is he? When, where, and how?"

That is above all what the people need to know. So, I decided then and there that an autobiography was in order. My own recreation of the events which made the monster. It is from the wolf's mouth, entirely and complete. Then, as I sat my goggles upon the proper head on the mantel, I caught a glimpse of my blessed Lillium Lupus. I knew exactly what my life's story should be called, and I grinned.

Lillium Lupus; The Nearly True Confessions of the Full Moon Mafia.