The Road to Hell is Paved with Good Intentions

This is the story of a werewolf named Barry.

Now, Barry was nothing but an optimist. A real glass-half-full kind of guy. So, when he was bitten last month and transformed into a man-wolf folklore demon, he didn’t despair. On the contrary! He was overjoyed that the extra weight he had carried round the middle had transformed into a rather impressive and chiselled physique. Having always been more of a mathlete than an athlete, he certainly now enjoyed flexing his biceps in the mirror every morning and seeing the bulging curve move upwards, not downwards. He was also elated to find that his previously bald scalp, the one that had literally reflected light, was now home to a luscious mop of thick, brown hair. But, what pleased him most was finding himself now several inches taller — after all, this meant his online dating profile was now accurate. If anything, this transformation had made him quite the stud, he thought. And this enthusiasm did not fade — even after his first date turned out to be a woman trying to recruit him for a pyramid scheme! — Barry truly believed that despite its obvious challenges, his life had taken a turn for the better.

On this particular day, Barry was extremely anxious. He was aware with every fibre of his being that that evening would be a full moon. Over the last week, with each day drawing nearer, he had been forced to admit dark truths that he had not yet dared to face. For long hours at a time, he stared at himself in the mirror, searching for a sign of a soul. Yet, he saw only the growing darkness. Again and again, he found himself day-dreaming about that mouth-watering moment of sinking his teeth into man-flesh. That rare, juicy, fatty, succulent, perfectly marbled human-steak tartare. (Yes, our dear hero considered himself quite the gourmet chef.) Yet, despite this much-fantasised-about moment, Barry was determined to hold on to his humanity. He knew in the very depths of his being that the moment his lips touched the flesh of another, his monstrous transformation would be complete.

And so, he had a plan: He would bake.

Now, the inner optimist inside Barry believed this plan was fool-proof. After all, he didn’t know anyone who wasn’t appeased by his creamy, buttery desserts — even Karen from finance found them irresistible! While he confessed that he was new to the whole predicament of being a werewolf, it seemed entirely plausible to him that a cake — one so succulent that it was heavenly as it was wickedly sinful — would surely curb his insatiable desire for flesh.

So, Barry baked. He sifted and stirred. He whipped cream and beat eggs. He did not stop, not until, at long last, a banquet of the finest, most splendid desserts filled his dining-room table, and he breathed a sigh of relief. He never felt prouder. The world had thrown him lemons, and he had made lemon-merengue pie. He knew in his heart that he was doing the right thing. Yet, as always, the scariest moment was right before the start.

As the full moon rose into the night sky, Barry transformed into the monstrous beast that hid within his skin. His teeth sharpened into vicious fangs. His claws became daggers. Fur grew and covered his entire body. And as he let out a painful howl, he served himself a sumptuous piece of rich, dark-chocolate cake.

Now, this was not just any cake. This cake was seductive. Luxurious. Decadent. Silken chocolate oozed from its centre. Sweet and gooey. Such pure, velvety exquisiteness that each bite transported dear Barry to a near transcendent state. A world where there was no suffering. No desire. No sense-of-self. It was nirvana. He was one with the universe.

His plan was working.

Unfortunately, this moment of immaculate divinity was the second last thing that Barry would remember.

The very last thing was that dogs, even those that are part human, cannot digest chocolate.

It happened quickly.

First, he was restless. His heart started to race. Faster and faster. He was panting hard. Indeed, he could not even fathom how breathing had suddenly become so laborious. He paced up and down and back and forth as the nausea washed over him, wave after wave, endlessly.

Barry’s death was not quiet, nor dignified. It cannot be imagined in an abstract, romanticised way. He did not face his death with courage. No — death by poisoning is not glamourous. There was vomiting. And then diarrhoea. He writhed in pain. He had muscle tremors and seizures as his body gave way to the toxins running through his system. Until finally, he collapsed and death took him. He died of heart failure. Alone. Surrounded by a hundred perfect cakes. Without having hurt a single person, despite his beastly transformation, which will fuel children’s nightmares for centuries to come.

And that is the end of this woeful tale.

Now, dear reader, interpret the moral of this story as you will: For the more morbid among you, let this story warn of the dire consequences of ignoring one’s true nature. For those who are more sardonic, let it be a metaphor for life and the brutal irony of what oft happens when one tries to do the right thing. For the literalist, may it highlight the perils of vegetarianism. And finally, for those whose inner voice calls with the relentless, insuperable optimism that rang true in the heart of Barry the werewolf, did you even read the story?