It was a dark and, yes, a stormy night, when Lenny was ripped untimely from his mother's womb. Though the moon was full, no moonshine gleamed as mother's wails and baby's cries mingled in the dark.
Though he grew up small and sickly-looking, Lenny exhibited strange strengths. His mother could never keep his fingernails properly trimmed. Cuts and scrapes healed quickly.
As he approached adolescence, Lenny found his hairy palms a constant source of embarrassment. Often in fights, he always lost. He bided his time, and nurtured fantasies of revenge.
One night, soon after his twelfth birthday, he awoke bathed in moonlight. He felt a strange pull; a tingling centered in his chest flowed outward to bathe his entire body with energy. Lenny shuffled downstairs, out of the house, into the back yard. He stood staring up, at the moon.
The full moon...
The world grew taller as Lenny fell. The agony of transformation ripped through him. Colors faded; smells sharpened. When it was over, Lenny sat back on his haunches and bayed his deep, full-throated hunting cry.
The sound echoed back from the darkened houses around him, the savage howl... of the were-Pekingese.
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