Shitwolf

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What follows it the brutal account of how five bizarre men came together
to become the jaw dropping musical force whose name is spoken around the
world, in whispers and blood curdling screams, SHITWOLF!

The Mange:

Nobody knows who the Mange’s parents were, there are rumors of gypsy
madmen and philandering royalty, but nothing can be confirmed, and any
parties claiming direct knowledge died under mysterious circumstances .
What is known is that The Mange was abandoned at an early age in the
slums of Paris, where he almost certainly would have died had he not
been taken in by the alpha female of a pack of feral dogs who roamed the
city. It is said that she found him wailing in a dumpster, on the verge
of starvation and about to be mauled by some of the younger males in the
pack looking to bring her a tasty prize. Why she did what she did defies
all instinct, perhaps she sensed some smell on him that recalled happier
days, perhaps it was some protective magic placed on him by gypsy
relatives, or it was one of those strange fluke happenings of the
natural world. Whatever her reasons, she savagely fought off three young
males that surrounded him and tenderly carried him back to rotting
bridge abutment that passed for her den where she nursed him on her own
milk until he was able to fend for himself.

He roamed with the pack for ten brutal years. As a young child he was
smaller and slower than the rest of the pack, and was constantly
reminded of this through tooth and claw. Many times he was saved from
death in the jaws of his pack mates by the ferocious protection of his
surrogate mother. As he grew older and stronger his struggle was no
easier. When the ranking males of the pack realized he could become a
threat to them, they began to attack him with increasing violence just
as the lesser dogs were backing off. Around this time, even though none
of the other dogs dared touch her, the ravages of age began to attack
the grand wolfhound that had served as his mother and protector for the
last ten years. One day, in the hottest part of summer she led him back
to the dumpster where she had first found him and saved his life. The
rest of the pack followed them down the dead end alley a respectful
distance behind. The wolfhound tried to jump into the dumpster several
times, failing each time, until The Mange helped her in. She the laid
down in a comfortable spot, looked The Mange in the eyes one last time,
as if to say good luck, and died.

As one voice the entire pack let loose the howl of their mourning. Feral dog and man child alike wailed to the heavens for the loss of their greatest protector and beloved leader. For several minutes the cry held strong, then slowly faded out, and all was silent. The Mange turned around to see the three largest males of the pack approaching slowly, surely and with eyes full of death. The pack was without a leader and that would be settled before the next ten minutes were up. The rest of the pack was also moving closer in a solid line a safe distance behind the leaders. They were there to see that the bodies of the losers did not go to waste. In the world of survival of the fittest, second place is still dead, and dignity is a luxury reserved for very few. The Mange knew all this, in his years with the pack it was something that was that did not even need to be taught it simply was. Living ten years of this life had made him tougher and faster than civilized man would think possible. He also had ten pounds on the largest of the feral dogs in the pack, but he knew it would not be enough. Because the dog had canine canines, fangs designed by brutal evolutionary forces to kill beings such as him. He however had hands, hands shaped by the same eveloutionary forces to wield objects in his defence. In desparation he picked up the nearest object to him and the dogs paused. What happens next defies logic, but desparation and logic rarely meet, and now was not one of those times.

The object he had seized had a long handle and a large body, and he had intended to wield it like a club. But it also had some sort of wires across the front and when had touched them a strange sound eminated from the object and the dogs crouched a little, more unsure than before. Suddenly all his anger, his frustration at his inabilty to fend off death, his pain and loss went into his hands and into the strings of the guitar he was holding (he didn’t know it but that’s what the object was. The dumpster he was left in, and where his mother now laid, was behind a shop that made and sold traditional musical intsruments. One of the shops master builders had secretly made a guitar that completely broke tradition, and considered it his masterpiece. When he triumphantly showed it to the owner of the shop he was told “It’s hideous, it will never sell, throw it away this instant or I’ll see that you will never work in this town again.” So reluctanly, the master took his work out back to the dumpster, but rather than throw it in, he placed it alongside, hoping someone would come along and at least play the thing. Which is exactly what happened.)

It is said that what The Mange played that night is the single greatest piece of music ever written, performed, or concieved, at any point, anywhere on earth. However, as it was played by an illiterate youth to a pack of dogs, this is entirely speculation. Regardless, it saved the boys life. The dogs all sat, instantly and without question. They listened, in the way only the senses of a dog, heighteded by years of hardship and toil can listen. And they changed, the feral man child went from being a rival to be eliminated to there unquestioned leader so quickly, and so completely that they had no reccolection of him as anything else. They only knew him as the being that made sounds that elevated them from the pain of hunger to an understanding of the universal pain of the universe, that all dogs and men and other things suffered together but put out of their minds because they could not handle it. But these dogs understood it, and they could handle it, as long as there was this sound.

After a long time The Mange, still playing, but slower and softer now, began to walk back to the den underneath the bridge abutment. The pack rose and walked with him in a protective group, with scouts running out ahead, then quickly retuning to the music. Upon reaching the place he abruptly stopped, and dropped to the ground exhausted. Most of the pack did so as well. Except for a few who stayed awake to keep a protective watch. Those few howled through the night, no longer mourning the loss of their former leader, but mourning the stoppage in the sound.

The next morning the pack woke before dawn and went on the hunt with a new vigor. More than the usual number of neighborhood cats and rats fell before their fury, and trash cans were tumbled in a larger radius than ever before. By the time the city awoke the pack was sated and back in hiding, with The Mange playing a song of triumph for the successful hunt and the lazy time until it was dark and they would roam again. So it went for many years, and the pack prospered. There were periodic rumors in the neighborhood of a wild haired youth, wearing nothing but a guitar on his back, running at the head of a pack of wild dogs. These rumors were never confirmed. When the local gendarmes stumbled across the hiding place of the pack all they saw was a lone street musician practicing in the shadows, fiercely protected by his terror of a dog.

It continued like this until one day, a dark stranger appeared, also with a guitar on his back. His guitar spoke to the one of The Mange until they spoke as one, changing everything.

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