The QueerWolves and the Meth Gala!

Panel 1:Wide exterior shot of the WereHouse loading dock on a sunny afternoon. The building is a large industrial warehouse with a rolling dock door. Evil Forklift is parked outside, his large glowing green eyes drooping contentedly, a massive glowing green joint smoldering in his raised forks, curling thick green smoke lazily into the blue sky. A Gadsden flag sticker gleams on his chassis. Cadillac leans against the brick wall beside him, arms crossed, toothpick perfectly centered in his mouth, sunglasses on, radiating total ease. The dock is empty. No trucks. No road cases. Nothing moving.

Panel 2:Medium shot on Cadillac, leaning against the wall, arms still crossed, toothpick immovable, eyes closed behind his sunglasses. Pure contentment on his face.

“Cadillac : No shows going out this week. It is finally time for me to relax.”

Panel 3:Close-up on Evil Forklift's large glowing green eyes, half-lidded, green smoke wisping from his exhaust pipe. His Gadsden flag sticker catches the light. Pure bliss.

Panel 4:Wide shot pulling back to show the full dock — Cadillac still against the wall, Evil Forklift parked and smoking, the dock door closed behind them, the street quiet and empty in both directions. A perfect, undisturbed afternoon.

Panel 1:Establishing wide shot down the street. An impossibly long, jet-black limousine — supernaturally elongated, stretching well beyond any realistic proportion — rounds the corner and rolls toward the WereHouse dock. Rainbow reflections shimmer off its tinted windows.

Narrator:“A mysterious and flamboyant vehicle arrives!”

Panel 2:The limo door swings open wide. The Group of Queer Werewolves pours out in a cascade — rainbow-dyed fur, avant-garde couture, enormous platform boots, jeweled claws, feather boas, and sunglasses that defy physics. Leading them, the Queerwolf steps out first: sharp-eyed, immaculate, commanding, one hand on the limo roof, surveying the dock like a runway.

Panel 3:The WereHouse crew has materialized at the dock entrance. Axel stands at the front, face visibly pale, claws gripping the door frame. Behind them: Gary floating with clipboard already in ghostly hands, Jennifurr arms crossed, Roy straightening up, and Cadillac still leaning on the wall — toothpick unmoved.

“Axel: Oh no. It's the Queerwolves.”

Panel 4:Close-up on Axel's pale, wide-eyed face, gripping the door frame.

“Axel: The underworld's richest, most stylish, and most demanding clients.”

Panel 5:Gary floats forward, clipboard materializing in his translucent hands, eyes wide and sparkling with excitement, a big enthusiastic grin on his face.

“Gary : If we land this contract, everyone gets a bonus! This is FABULOUS!”

Panel 6:Jennifurr stands with arms crossed, expression flat and deadpan. Her eyes slide slowly sideways toward Roy. Roy straightens up, chest out, indignant.

“Jennifurr: Someone's gonna have to pack this show. Roy : Why not “some-wolf?””

Narrator:“Shut Up Roy! ”

Panel 1:Wide interior shot of the WereHouse loading dock. The Queerwolf and the Group of Queer Werewolves sweep inside. The Queerwolf grips a rolled contract and, with a dramatic flourish, releases it. The paper unrolls across the entire dock floor — a comically enormous scroll that spills end to end and curls up the far wall. The whole WereHouse crew stands around it, staring down.

Narrator:“Behold! ”

Panel 2:Medium shot on the Queerwolf, one clawed hand raised in a single imperious gesture, speaking directly to the crew. Their outfit is immaculate — structured shoulders, bold color, perfect hair.

“Queerwolf : Our annual charity ball. This year's theme: The Meth Gala. The vibe must be immaculate. Gross. Degenerate. White trash.”

Panel 3:Gary's ghostly hand shoots straight up. His face is lit with the enthusiasm of someone who has solved a very easy problem. He points at Roy with his other hand.

“Gary : Roy here is white trash! He can help!”

Panel 4:Roy's mouth hangs open, eyes wide, staring at Gary. His expression is pure, helpless disbelief.

Panel 5:The Queerwolf leans toward Roy with a dazzling, wide smile, one clawed hand resting lightly on Roy's shoulder. Roy is frozen stiff. The Group of Queer Werewolves signs the contract behind them with elaborate flourishes.

“Queerwolf : Our Human Contact will reach out with reference locations. See you next week, babe.”

Panel 6:The long black limo pulls away from the dock. The crew stands in the dock doorway watching it go. Evil Forklift's green eyes drift down to the massive contract still spread across the floor. A single skeptical puff of green smoke rises from his exhaust pipe.

Narrator:“Time to get to work Roy! ”

Panel 1:Wide shot of a dingy graffiti-covered alley at dusk. Brick walls plastered with torn posters and spray paint. A single buzzing sodium lamp overhead. Roy stands next to the Human Contact — a wiry, pockmarked man in a stained jacket, twitching with nervous energy, eyes darting — as the Human Contact hands cash to a shadowy street dealer in the alley mouth. A small white bag exchanges hands.

“Roy : Am in the right alley?”

Narrator:“Roy and the Human Contact meet up at his office! ”

Panel 2:Medium shot on Roy, staring at the white bag in the Human Contact's twitching hand. Roy's expression is confused and alarmed.

“Roy : I thought this was a work trip.”

Panel 3:The Human Contact grins wide, gesturing grandly with the white bag. His eyes are already a little too bright.

“Roy : METHod acting. We research the aesthetic. Build a beautiful set.”

Panel 4:Three-panel hallucinatory sequence in vivid, blown-out colors. FIRST: Roy, wild-eyed and grinning, hurls a fast food bag out the window of a moving car, the bag tumbling through bright afternoon air, fries exploding outward. SECOND: Roy stands in a long government benefits line, hands clasped, face radiant with deep contentment, fluorescent tubes overhead. THIRD: Roy sits on a crumbling porch, scratching a lottery ticket with a penny, surrounded by empty cans, looking profoundly at peace.

Narrator:“The meth hits.”

Panel 5:Snap back to reality. Roy is face-down in the dirt of the alley, cheek pressed against gravel, one arm splayed out. The alley is dark. The Human Contact is gone. A single crumpled fast food bag blows past.

Panel 1:Roy lifts his head from the dirt, cheek scraped, hair matted. His eyes focus. Evil Forklift is parked at the alley entrance, green eyes glowing bright and businesslike in the dark, exhaust pipe trailing green smoke. The Gadsden flag sticker catches the moonlight.

Panel 2:Close-up on Roy's face — scraped, relieved, eyes welling with gratitude.

“Roy : Oh my god. You're here to save me.”

Panel 3:Evil Forklift's green eyes stare flatly at Roy. His exhaust pipe emits one slow, indifferent puff of green smoke.

“Evil Forklift : I'm here to buy meth, Roy.”

Panel 4:Wide shot. Roy is slumped sideways on Evil Forklift's forks, one arm dangling, head lolling, as Evil Forklift rolls out of the alley and down the dark street toward the WereHouse. Green smoke trails behind them both.

Panel 1:A separate shadowy alley across town. Crime Fighting Cadillac stands under a single flickering streetlamp — tiny cowl perched on his head, toothpick tucked perfectly underneath it, baseball bat resting over one shoulder. He is otherwise identical to Cadillac: cool, unhurried, toothpick immaculate.

Narrator:“Meanwhile, in our gritty B Plot, Cadillac emerges from the shadows!”

Panel 2:The Mayor steps out of the shadows at the far end of the alley. Slicked-back silver hair immaculate, 'TAX THE POOR' sash crisp across his tailored charcoal suit, black ring gleaming on his long thin finger. His unsettling wide smile is at full width. He and Crime Fighting Cadillac face each other across the alley.

“Mayor: Are you thinking what I'm thinking?”

Panel 3:Close-up on Crime Fighting Cadillac's face — tiny cowl, toothpick dead center, one slow deliberate nod. His expression is completely flat.

“Crime fighting Cadillac : Yep.”

Narrator:“Psychic Powers! ”

Panel 4:Montage strip of three action panels across the page width. FIRST: Crime Fighting Cadillac winds up and swings his baseball bat — WHAM — connecting with a drug dealer's stash table, product flying everywhere. The Mayor's long thin fingers scoop up a bag with elegant precision. SECOND: Another alley, Crime Fighting Cadillac mid-swing — CRACK — bat connecting. The Mayor steps over the fallen dealer and collects the goods without breaking stride. THIRD: A third alley, Crime Fighting Cadillac following through on a massive swing — THWACK — bat raised high. The Mayor straightens his sash calmly, bag in hand.

Panel 5:Final B-plot panel. Crime Fighting Cadillac and the Mayor lean side by side against a grimy alley wall in the dark, completely relaxed. Between them on a crate sit various confiscated goods in various forms. They both sample in their respective ways — the Mayor with long-fingered elegance, Crime Fighting Cadillac with zero ceremony. The Mayor's smile is wide. Crime Fighting Cadillac's toothpick is still somehow perfect.

“Crime fighting Cadillac : Getting drugs off the streets has never been this cool.”

Narrator:“Cadillac and the Mayor take a rare break from beating up low-level criminals to bond!”

Panel 1:Wide shot of the WereHouse loading dock interior. Roy slides off Evil Forklift's forks and lands on his feet, barely. The full crew is assembled and facing him: Axel arms crossed at the front, Jennifurr beside them, Gary floating with clipboard, Cadillac leaning on a road case. The dock is stacked with unpacked gear — road cases, speaker cabinets, coiled cable mountains, rack units. It is a disaster.

Panel 2:Axel steps forward, arms crossed, chin up, smug but genuinely furious.

“Axel: Four hours late, Roy. Not that we needed you anyway — well, actually we did, and this is entirely your fault.”

Panel 3:Jennifurr steps forward past Axel, grabs Roy by the collar with one strong hand, and delivers one sharp, precise, open-palmed slap across his cheek. Roy's head snaps sideways. Her expression is controlled — not rage, but cold precision.

“Jennifurr: Get to work. Stop making me look bad for having your back.”

Panel 4:Roy stands alone facing the mountain of unpacked gear — a towering wall of road cases, speaker stacks, cable coils, and rack units stretching to the ceiling. His hand reaches into his jacket pocket and emerges with a small glass vial. The label, written in smudged black marker, reads: NOSE CLAMS.

Narrator:“It's not like he's going to pass a drug test anyway.”

Panel 5:Roy tips the vial under his nose and sniffs. His eyes go wide. Then wider. His pupils dilate to pinpoints. Every muscle in his body snaps rigid for one frozen beat.

Panel 6:Transformation panel: Roy is a pure motion blur — a streak of energy tearing across the dock. Ghost-image trails of Roy show him coiling cable, racking gear, lifting road cases two at a time, sliding speaker cabinets into position with inhuman precision and speed. The crew — Axel, Jennifurr, Cadillac, Gary — stands at the edges of the dock, slack-jawed, watching. Gary has a clipboard and is cheerfully filling out a form labeled DRUG POLICY WAIVER. Evil Forklift's green eyes are wide and, for once, genuinely impressed.

Panel 1:Wide establishing shot of the Meth Gala venue. A large ballroom with peeling floral wallpaper, flickering fluorescent tube lights overhead, water stains on the ceiling tiles, and a cracked linoleum floor. The WereHouse AV rig is immaculate — speaker stacks perfectly positioned, lighting rig overhead, every cable hidden and dressed, lights running in perfect color. The Group of Queer Werewolves circulates through the space in pristine, outrageously chic outfits, beaming with delight. Near the walls, Fent Zombies lean at forty-five-degree angles like avant-garde sculptures, eyes half-open, unmoving. A haze hangs in the air.

Narrator:“Finally, The Meth Gala!”

Panel 2:Medium shot. The Queerwolf glides up to Roy, who stands near the audio rack. The Queerwolf's outfit is perfect — not a hair out of place. Roy looks exhausted but upright. The Queerwolf rests one clawed hand on Roy's arm, expression warm and genuine.

“Queerwolf : Our Human Contact was unfortunately lost to addiction. But the Meth Gala is absolutely splendid. Thank you, babe.”

Panel 3:Roy nods, expression caught between genuine pride and deep, dawning horror at everything around him. Behind him, a Fent Zombie leans at a forty-five-degree angle, perfectly still.

Panel 4:Gary floats in the far corner of the venue, partially hidden behind a peeling wallpaper pillar. He holds a thick wad of cash in both translucent hands and counts it with focused, managerial satisfaction. His expression is one of pure professional contentment. A thought bubble rises above him.

“Gary : I should let my employees do drugs more often!”

Narrator:“I should let my employees do drugs more often.”

Panel 1:Wide establishing shot of the Howling Pint bar interior. Warm, amber-lit, wood-paneled walls covered in supernatural memorabilia. The whole crew files in through the front door — Roy first, tired but upright; Jennifurr behind him; then Axel; then Frank, massive in his aviator sunglasses, already heading straight for the bar. Gary phases through the wall to the side, already at his usual spot. Evil Forklift rolls through the wide entrance onto a raised platform beside the bar, green eyes at half-mast, a fresh glowing green joint the size of a small traffic cone smoldering in his forks. Cadillac strolls in last, brushing something off his jacket sleeve with one hand, toothpick immaculate.

Narrator:“The Crew Arrives at the Howling Pint! Mil the Supernatural Bartender use her psychic powers and has their drinks ready! ”

Panel 2:Behind the bar, Mil the Bartender stands — buxom, petite-featured, her purple glow warming the bottles lined up behind her. Shot glasses rise telekinetically from the shelf and arrange themselves in a perfect row on the bar top, all on their own.

Panel 3:In the background, Gremlin scrambles — hunched, sweaty, smock filthy, rag on his belt — hauling a tray of empties with both arms, nearly bent double under the weight. He moves fast, head down, not stopping.

Narrator:“Gremlin the Filthy barback toils without anytime to lean! ”

Panel 4:Cadillac drops onto a barstool with perfect ease, one elbow on the bar. He pulls his jacket collar straight. His toothpick has not moved. His expression says nothing happened and everything is fine.

“Cadillac : First round is on me!”

Panel 1:Wide panoramic shot of the full crew lined up at the bar — Roy, Jennifurr, Axel, Cadillac, Frank, Gary floating just above his stool, and Evil Forklift on his platform at the end. Mil the Bartender stands behind the bar, purple glow illuminating the bottles behind her. Shot glasses hover in the air above the bar top, telekinetically held, liquid pouring itself into each one.

“Roy : That burns! Frank: Stop embarrassing me bub Mil the Bartender : Grow up Roy!”

Panel 2:Close-up on Evil Forklift's green eyes — half-lidded, crinkled at the corners, the glowing green joint smoldering in his forks. His expression is as close to warmth as a forklift can manage.

“Evil Forklift : For once, Roy didn't fork up.”

Panel 3:Axel opens their mouth, one finger raised in the classic 'well actually' posture. Jennifurr turns and fixes them with a single flat, withering stare. Axel's mouth closes.

“Axel: Well, actually—”

Panel 4:Frank raises his shot glass without a word, expression gruff and unreadable behind his aviator sunglasses. It is the highest compliment he gives.

“Frank: Actually, cheers! To Roy!”

Panel 5:Roy grins — wide, genuine, fully relaxed — for the first time all issue. His shot glass is raised. Beside him, Gary laughs so hard his ghostly form phases partially through the bar stool beneath him, his legs disappearing into the seat.

Panel 1:Roy remembers Gary promised the crew a bonus. He looks at Gary and asks why the crew didn’t get it.

“Roy : Gary! What about that bonus we were promised??”

Panel 2:Gary explains that the bonus is paid annually. And all of Roy’s errors have added up….

“Roy : Gary: Roy, well you’ll get paid in December. Right before Christmas. But we will deduct some stuff. Like all that meth you did!”

Panel 3:Evil forklift puts his fork up! He says “ok for one time only”. He emits a stream of eerie cable. It’s a big spool of thick copper cable

“Roy : Evil Forklift: “Hey Roy. Ok, one time only. Here’s a cool of evil copper wire I shit out. Go scrap it!””

Narrator:“Roy hits pay dirt! ”

Panel 4:Everyone raises a glass in unison and says “Cheers to scrap copper! Keeping meth heads high!”

“Roy : Everyone says in unison “Cheers to scrap copper! Keeping meth heads high!””

Panel 5:Everyone aims and throws their shot glasses at Gremlin. They meanly toss all of their shot glasses at him with no remorse.

“Gremlin : Cadillac says “catch!””

Narrator:“A typical night for the bar back! ”

Panel 1:Full-page wide closing shot of the entire Howling Pint interior. The whole crew is still at the bar — Roy leaning back on his stool with a wide grin, Jennifurr beside him with a rare relaxed smile, Axel smug but genuinely warm, Cadillac perfectly still with his toothpick in place, Frank massive and silent in his aviator sunglasses, Gary floating slightly above his seat with arms raised in pure delight. Evil Forklift dominates the end of the bar on his raised platform, green eyes glowing wide and bright, Gadsden flag sticker catching the light, fresh green smoke curling from his exhaust. Mil the Bartender stands behind the bar, purple glow bathing everything in warm violet-amber light, bottles glowing behind her. In the far background, Gremlin is still moving — hunched, smock filthy, rag on his belt, hauling empties between tables, head down, never stopping. The whole scene is loud and alive and warm. A narrator caption banner runs in bold across the very bottom of the page.

Narrator:“Drugs and Alcohol — the magical elixirs that wash down the distasteful flavors of life! The Methage here is clear — be queer and get high!”