A/N: So, I thought I'd take a step back from all my little flash fiction beasties and try something funny instead. What's funnier than an obnoxious hipster chick who overuses the word 'bloody' and a bumbling werewolf with a thing for romance novels? You tell me. ^^ Enjoy!

Chapter One: Of Flying Butt-Leaps and Bloody Sportsfreaks

I'm sitting on a park bench with my eyeballs glued to a sinfully delicious copy of Neruda when a pair of squealing girls walks by, raising my blood pressure just a smidge.

"Oh, my, GAWD, Anna! He's so cute!"

"I know, right? He's like, gorgeous!"

I cringe, resisting the urge to trip the both of them. Bloody preteens. As they walk off, I adjust my beret, fiddle with my arm warmers, and turn the page over, letting Pablo's words wrap me up. Dee-licious.

"You're beautiful."

"OH, SWEET—" (at this point I take a glorious flying butt-leap off the side of the bench) "—BABY JESUS." There's a boy. There's a freaking boy on my bench. "What the hell is wrong with you!"

He turns his head to the side with a sort of dazed expression on his face. "You're even more beautiful when you're angry."

Still planted oh-so-gracefully on my keister in the grass, I give him a once-over. Eyes—brown. Bright. Healthy-looking. Okay, not a drunk. Hair—black and tousled, but clean. Okay, not a bum. Threat Level: Mild.

After about five seconds of assessing my plan of action, I pick myself up, fix my stockings, and decide it's high time this boy learned some manners. "I don't know what the bloody hell your problem is, but in cultured society, one does not sneak up on someone when said someone is deeply entangled in higher literary pursuits!"

Hear that sound? That's the sound of my rant sailing serenely through his empty cranium. He walks closer—oh, for love of all the fishes, he's a jock. He's all muscular and freaking windswept, wearing a shirt that looks about to shred itself over his pectorals. Bloody sportsfreak. "Your voice is amazing," he half-whispers, in a tone of fawning adoration I recognize from old romance movies.

Not that I watch those.

"Yes, well," I say, clutching my precious Neruda to my chest, "I'll just be going now." I turn and stalk off down the bike path. The nerve of some people. And anyway—'beautiful'? That's his idea of a compliment? Ugh, too bloody mainstream. Maybe I should just go home and listen to the new Static Jacks album…

"I think I love you."

My legs stop working mid-stride and I just about face-plant like a breeching whale. "STOP FOLLOWING ME!" I whirl as I scream, my voice shattering through several painful octaves. My legs—oh, snark. My legs tangle up and this time I do pitch forward with all the grace of a paraplegic penguin, straight onto freaking Stalker Jock.

His big brawny arms wrap tightly around my shoulders, crushing my cheek to his chest. In shock, I let my arms dangle limply, and I can tell my rainbow-stockinged legs are splayed out at an extremely unflattering angle. "Let. Go."

He doesn't comply. Instead, he starts to rock me back and forth like a freaking toddler, rubbing his face blissfully against my hair. A hard, rectangular object driven deep into his abdomen quickly sorts him out. Pablo is very multi-purpose.

Now, a sane person would run away. Not me. I'm a person with flair.

"You." I smack the side of his head with my book. "Get." Now his shoulder. That sound is so satisfying. "The heck." SMACK—right in the chest. "Away." Headshot. "FROM ME." I finish with a volley of whacks to the midsection. Why is no one around to film this? Or at least applaud it, sheesh.

Stalker Jock skitters away like a shooed pigeon, then looks at me forlornly from about ten feet away. "But you're supposed to fall in love with me," he whimpers, extending one arm in a flamingly cliché gesture of pining.

"And why the fox would I do that!" I shout back. I should probably leave before someone sees me like this—shoulders heaving, legs splayed out and feet turned in, beret askew—but no. I'm ticked.

Stalker Jock takes a hesitant step forward. "Because I'm a werewolf in training!"

Oh. My. God.

"I have to earn my fangs!"

Dear. God. No.

"And to do that, I have to do what a teen werewolf is supposed to do!"

Please. God. Why?

"Be dashing and tortured and desirable!" Stalker Jock—ahem, Delusional Stalker Jock—finishes with a cocky smile.

Oh, my sweet Neruda. I clutch my battered book to me like it'll save me from this rampant bloody insanity. What the bloody hell is this world coming to?

This is really just me being ridiculous and having fun, but that's a good thing, isn't it? :) Anyway, be a dear and leave me a review, won't you? I have just about the whole thing written, but it's quite short, actually, so if you have any ideas for shenanigans these two could get up to, let me know. ^^