Meet the Papa Wolves
TV Tropes call them a Papa Wolf. Children call them dad, daddy, papa, or even the odd father every once in a while. In honor of Father’s Day, I am profiling a few of the fathers in my stories. William Bryson from Ruby Caves, Manny from… well, Manny, and Devon Brady from Mutant Cowboy Space Pirate. This post will directly correlate with William. Tomorrow, Manny. Tuesday, Devon.
First off; William Bryson. He was born on July 22, 1966. His father, Lucas Graham Bryson, began raising him as a child soldier against the monsters of the world and the wishes of his wife, Cecilia (NOTE: this will not be her official name, I don’t know why I just thought of it, but that is the best I can do right now), at the age of fifteen. Almost thirty years later, he is not the highest ranking member, but he does have seniority in his position at the Pinecrest, NY branch of the Lunar Riders Corporation. After his girlfriend and later wife Sarah discovered his real job early on in their relationship, she gave him an ultimatum: “I am almost positive you kill people as well as monsters. I do not care. If we do move forward with this relationship, and we do start a family and move into a small town, I want you to promise me something,” she whispered to him.
Yes, I do kill people. I have killed many, without hesitation, and as long as sin walks upon the earth, I will be there to meet it. “Anything,”
“You keep the violence of your job outside of our home.”
He nodded against the pillow. She would want a vocal affirmative. “Unless you ask, or you see the scars on my body, you will not know what monster I hunt. Though,” he cracked a smile, “Dinner will be awfully boring if I don’t give you a few gory details.” She smiled back, and before she could answer him he leaned in to kiss her.
To this day, Sarah is still unaware of the nickname he has earned through his career, because he feels it will paint him in such a violent and twisted light that she would leave him, and that is one of his deepest fears in life. Sarah and their son Michael are the two people who can reel him in from the violence he leaves behind when he wipes his shoes on the welcome mat of their home. He earned the nickname, the Right Hand of God (or, the RHOG) because of his sheer, raw, uncompromising brutality when killing monsters and people alike. Now, I am not trying to turn him into a Gary Sue, mind you, but I did want to establish that this is an incredibly, incredibly deadly and violent man early on. It does play a role in how he interacts with key characters later on in the story. This is him now:
Dad looked down once more at the trail of blood in the snow. He shoveled clean snow over the streak left out in the middle of the dirt path with the toe of a boot. The yellow light framed him beautifully- his frown, the hands in his pockets, dark coat flapping at the back of his knees, and the snow drifting down from the branches above. Michael discreetly took a picture of the moment. Mom saw him and leaned over from the front seat. He showed her. “That’s a good picture,” she said quietly, smiling.
“I’ll caption it, Dad at work.”
“Eh,” she scrunched her nose, shook her head, “Privately maybe, but leave work off of social media.”
“Right,” Michael said, “But there’s nothing compromising about it.”
“Still, I would be careful with what you are posting about your father online.”
“Okay,” Michael said. At least he could privately caption it, Dad at work.
Doc had his paws on Michael’s right leg. His smelly breath condensed a pulsing white orb on the window. He whined and shifted his legs. Michael gasped as the claws cut through his jeans. “Shh, shh,” Mom cooed at Doc, stroking his broad head. It was quiet in the car. Calm enough to the point, where, if Michael was still not riding an adrenaline high, he would be falling asleep. He yawned and lead against the headrest, closing his eyes.
Just as he was getting comfortable Dad opened the driver’s door. The freezing wind jolted Michael awake. He quickly hugged Doc’s body to his chest. The dog thumped his tail against the seat, four hearty thwacks, and licked his face. Smelly breath was worth the warmth even as Dad shut the door. He warmed his hands for a moment, rubbing them together before turning to them.
“The werewolf you saw was female. Her tracks were narrow, and she was light on her feet. Very well hidden. I’m still surprised she ventured so close to the hotel.” Dad said, a little breathless.