Alphas And Angry Authors

Chapter Two

Nathan Murr was not a werewolf.

It was just coincidental that he liked his steaks rare, and felt really itchy on full moons.

Not to mention dreaming of running through the woods as a wolf.

He sat on his couch, one foot dangling, the other being used as a prop for his sketchbook while he once again tried to draw Nikola Tesla.

Instead, he got something that looked nothing like Benedict Cumberbatch, but could be recognized as him if someone viewed it from twenty three feet away at a slight angle.

He crumbled it up and tossed it into the full trashcan, where it promptly bounced out and came to rest in the middle of the two.

He glared.

The ball mocked him.

He glared more, as if the paper was instead a bottle of Old Janx Spirit.

After two minutes and forty two seconds Nathan gave up and delivered it to the trash by hand, followed by a sigh of defeat.

He plopped back down on the plaid couch, and stretched for the remote with his toes.

He grasped it successfully, and bent his knees bringing it back to his lap.

With a victorious smile on his face, he turned the tv on to the news.

And shut it off after five minutes because the news was really boring.

Again.

He returned to his sketchpad, this time trying to sketch his potted fern.

This time, it was pretty accurate.

Surprised by this new skill, he started to sketch every single plant in his house.

He liked plants anyways, even tried becoming a vegetarian multiple times. However, that always tended to end in him breaking down and ordering a Hunger Buster from the local Dairy Queen, which all small towns seem to have.

Three hours later, he finally ran out of plants, and Oprah Winfrey played on after a mandatory tv break.

An hour after that, and plans were made to hike in that forest a couple miles away tomorrow.

Because if he remembered anything from good ol ROTC in his high school years, to give anything less than the best was to sacrifice the gift (sir).

After having gone on a frantic search for sunscreen and actual pants (instead of the hundreds of pairs of sweatpants he had laying around the house, which, as anyone who has been outside knows, attract anything and everything that can possibly get on you), he finally crashed on the couch on which he began, with cooking tips from Rachel Ray blaring from the tv.

And, of course, as typical of any twenty year old male who lives alone, a sink full of dirty dishes, and, for some unknown reason, three dirty gym socks.