Heh.

"Hold still while I, uh, claw you," you order the guard.

With a roll of his eyes, the guard stiffens and stands still before you. Suddenly, you rake your fingertips across his shirt . . . to no effect. Your claws, or fingernails, are as smooth as a baby's bottom. You stare at them in frustration.

"Good luck on the werewolf thing," the guard deadpans as he slaps you on the shoulder. He walks off and leaves you to contemplate your unscariness.

Written by Joey Liverwurst

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