#FlashFiction Judging a Pack by Its Cover by Stacy Benedict

I can’t just start off with “People = Shit,” Brik thought. He scanned his carefully crafted playlist. You build up to
that, ending the set with something badass.
Glass smashing and a burst of laughter tore his gaze from his computer screen to the overly tattooed and
gratingly loud pack slamming back whiskeys at the bar. They laughed at the elderly bartender, who cowered as
he poured them another round.
Brik swallowed the ball of fear that had crawled up from his belly and went over his song list again.
Begin with “Duality” maybe?
This was definitely a Slipknot kind of crowd. Black leather Harley-Davidson jackets, steel-toed boots, and ripped blue jeans—it was the official attire at Dixon’s coming-out party. The grizzled beast with a thick scar running from forehead to chin had been released from a Tallahassee federal prison after serving fifteen years, so his gang celebrated the occasion by renting out Thrice Bitten in his honor.
Cigarette smoke and the tang of stale alcohol infested every molecule in the bar. The smell seeped into pores and left a bitter aftertaste in the back of throats.
Brik hadn’t wanted to accept the gig, but his Mastercard had been declined to front the cost of a Quarter Pounder with cheese at McDonald’s last night and rent was due in two weeks. The universe was telling him something, and that something was to take a job, any damn job, even if it was a far cry from the champagne soaked weddings and glittery parties crammed with pixie ingenues he was used to DJing.
A shot glass came flying at his head. Brik ducked. It smashed into the wood paneling behind him. He yelped at the sound, and the gang howled with laughter.

“C’mon already,” Dixon bellowed, disgust filling his tone. “Play something.”
Brik peeked from behind his turntables. Twenty pairs of eyes glared in his direction. Their glassy stares glowed in the bar’s dim yellowish light.
Hurry, the bartender mouthed to Brik, his expression pleading. He shoved bottles of Heineken at the group as a distraction.
Brik exhaled a shaky breath. Get it together, he warned himself. He’d been livening up parties in one form or another for decades. I’ll have these mangy mutts jumping to my beats in no time.
There was no telling how old they were for sure. Most of the crowd looked between late twenties to early forties, so he started with a classic.
Creedence Clearwater Revival’s “Bad Moon Rising” started playing. The fun song was a cheeky oldie but goodie.
Low growls slowly drowned out the chorus. Dixon spat on the floor and snarled.
Damn, too old.
Brik couldn’t segue fast enough into “Of Wolf and Man” by Metallica. Brik bobbed his head to the heavy guitar. Metallica was a staple. Tried and true. Every metalhead worth their studded belt and tribal armband tattoo loved them.
“What the actual fuck?” Red brightened the tips of Dixon’s ears. It spread down his cheeks to his neck. His buddies circled around him, as if waiting for his command to pounce.
Brik’s stomach clenched. Shit, shit. Was the song still too old?
He flipped to “Crawling” by Linkin Park. The rock song had an addictive hook. That had to get the party going, right?
Red-veined eyes bulged from Dixon’s sockets. If glares could punch, Brik would have two black eyes and possibly a broken jaw.
Shitty shit, shit. Panicked, he switched to Three Days Grace’s “Animal I Have Become.” It was one of his favorites from the 2000s. Who didn’t love that song?
Dixon’s roar boomed over the music like a primal battle cry. He surged toward the DJ booth, hands curled into claws. Bones popping. Lips blackening. His chief lieutenant picked up a chair and hurled it.
Heart thumping against his rib cage, Brik dropped to his knees. The chair crashed into the wall where he had once stood. He belted out a high-pitched scream. Splintered wood rained down. He covered his head as the DJ booth shook around him. The sound of his whimpering echoed in his head.
“Play something good, you fucking fairy,” Dixon barked.
Fairy? Fairy! What a jerk.
Brik had been dishing out great music. He’d walked into this last-minute gig blind and brought his A list. There was no pleasing these nasty animals. Despite his fight-or-flight response shouting at him to run, Brik surged to his feet and faced the gang. Enough was enough.

Thick gray-and-brown fur covered Dixon’s face. He snarled, exposing finger-length teeth. His breath huffed on Brik in warm blasts.
“Who’re you calling a fairy?” Brik’s voice quivered.
“Who do you fucking think?”
Sweat beaded on Brik’s upper lip. “I’m an elf, not a fairy, asshole.”
Snarling, Dixon ripped his shirt to shreds, exposing a wall of muscle that wasn’t the unnatural byproduct of steroids. They were steel cables under fur-covered flesh.
“Oh mercy.” The bartender ran to the back room and slammed the door shut.
Bottles rattled on the shelves.
The pack howled, claws extended, ready for the hunt. They stalked closer to the booth. Eyes locked on their prey.
Brik gulped his dry throat.
Dixon towered over the DJ booth, having grown to his true height as an alpha werewolf. A pink tongue licked his canines. He leaned down and growled in Brik’s face, “You have one chance to play a decent song before I turn your rib cage into a fucking back scratcher, elf.”
Tension coiled around Brik’s throat, making it hard to breathe. The only thing stopping the pack from slicing his head clean off was Dixon’s command.
And his next music selection.
Shit, he’s going to kill me. Shit! I’m going to die.
Thousands of song titles zipped through his mind in a kaleidoscope of lyrics and guitar riffs.
Judas Priest? … Or, or, Black Label Society?
No, maybe still too dated.
Pearl Jam?
Too grunge.
Korn?
Too heavy.
Tool?
Way too cerebral for these snout breathers.
Screw it, just go with Slipknot.
Fingers shaking, Brik cued up “Wait and Bleed.” He said a silent prayer to Freyr and was about to hit play when he noticed the words Britney Army 4 Life in swirling pink lettering, hidden among the skull tattoos on Dixon’s left pectoral.
He hesitated. Either I’m going to live to DJ another day or be torn apart in the back alley of a dive bar. Slipknot
seemed to be the obvious choice, but that tattoo had to mean something, right? Had he misjudged his audience that badly?
Dixon’s deep growl rattled his bones and nearly loosened his bladder.
Closing his eyes, Brik hit play on “My Prerogative” by Britney Spears.
Seconds passed, but each one felt like hours.
Dixon snorted and then turned away from the booth. “Finally, something good.” He grinned at his lieutenant. “Bring on the fucking whiskey.”
His crew cheered and hollered for the bartender. Dixon didn’t wait. He hopped over the bar in a single leap and grabbed the half-empty bottle of Jack Daniel’s the old bartender had abandoned.
Brik scanned his carefully organized music files, searching through the Rs for Rihanna’s “S&M Remix,” featuring Britney Spears. This was definitely a pop music kind of crowd.