The most interesting thing that you could say about Carl J. Darigold was that he was a dog person. The second most interesting thing was that Carl was an accountant.
Carl’s life was planned: a precise balance of eating, sleeping, working and pooping.
The only thing that he didn’t have control over happened once a month and he had learned to deal with it.
Carl wore the same thing everyday: a grey suit with a grey hounds-tooth tie and wire-rimmed spectacles.
In the mornings, he would eat a breakfast of ham and in the evening he would dine on discount steak, cooked rare.
Carl lived alone in a one-bedroom, one-bath, one-person flat on N. Fourth Street.
Monday through Friday, 9am to 5pm, Carl went to work. He enjoyed the monotony of his job, of fetching files and digging into spreadsheets to find whatever it is that accountants find.
On Saturdays, he would go to Manfred’s Barbershop to get his weekly trim. Manfred, an old widower with a son that never visited, had taken a liking to Carl. Carl didn’t say much during their time together; he let the old man ramble and reminisce. When he left, his head freshly barbered, the old man would pat him on the shoulder and call him a good boy.
When the moon became a perfect white circle, all of Carl’s hair grew until his skin was hidden beneath a layer of glossy brown. His nostrils split slightly and his nose darkened to a moist black. Lips loosened around a mouth of thickening canines, nails sharpened, and a pair of ears converted to triangles of thin leather. Carl’s ordinary accountant-body morphed itself into a hairy creature and his brain retreated to its primal nature.
The most interesting thing that you could say about Carl J. Darigold was that he was a dog person.