The Gnome headed out into the timber under the emerging bloody blue moon, a double long spring trap slung over his shoulder and three dead rabbits in his hand. The crazed wolfman nearly decimated the local turkeys during the last blue moon. And he left them all out to rot—guts strewn over the ground, blood spattered across the leaves, snoods drooping in the dirt—the Gnome was going to make sure that didn’t happen again.
Most mortals get it wrong. They assume that werewolves succumb to their beastly ways and wreak havoc on the world every full moon. Could you imagine the carnage if that were true? If every month, half-man, half-wolf beasts prowled about looking for anything they could sink their canines into, there wouldn’t be anything left to eat.
The Gnome knows better. He knows that werewolves only turn when the moon is full and experiencing a celestial event. Like a blue moon or a blood moon, or in this case, a bloody blue moon.
Now, the Gnome also knows a man lingers underneath that beast’s flesh. So he’s going to use a leg trap. That should keep him in one place for a bit. Hopefully, he doesn’t gnaw off a limb in his madness before his humanity returns. It’s a gamble the Gnome is willing to take.
As the Gnome walked the meandering path into the woods, he dropped a dead rabbit on the ground and smeared the blood around in the dirt a bit. This morning, he killed the greedy little buck-toothed creatures with a slingshot; they were destroying his winter vegetable stores.
On down the trail, he wandered, dropping a rabbit here and there as he went, keeping a wary eye on the fat moon starting to show its face on the horizon. Once he reached a point in the woods where the trees grew so thick together he couldn’t see through them, he decided to set his trap.
The double long spring he carried with him was so big that his arms barely reached long enough to set the trap. He managed, covering the trap in pine needles and dirt and sprinkling a little beaver gland juice from his pocket nearby.
Just as the Gnome was admiring his work, a blood-curdling howl broke the silence of the emerging night. Behind him, atop a hill, the scraggly silhouette of the werewolf stood illuminated by the bloody blue moon.
The Gnome held on to the wooden hammer he used to secure the trap and took a step back, never letting the beast out of his sight. It dropped to all fours and sprinted towards him. The Gnome didn’t flinch as the wolfman came closer, jowls dripping rancid drool, eyes wild with a fury that was beyond animalistic—it was lunar.
Just as the werewolf closed in on the Gnome, the trap snapped with a resounding CRACK. The wolf yowled in pain and trashed against the restraint. Whimpering, growling, and gnashing his teeth at the Gnome, the werewolf was trapped.
The Gnome whistled as he walked into the woods to retrieve the long, braided cord he stashed there a few days ago. With a few deftly knots, he hog-tied the beast, whistling over the cacophony of noise coming from the creature. He took a smaller piece of cord and, being careful of the massive teeth trying to bite him at every chance, muzzled the monster.
He then released the long spring, leaving the werewolf struggling against the ties that bound him, writhing on the damp ground. He felt some sympathy, knowing that a man existed under the flesh, he’d come to release him in the morning if he was still here. But he also felt a sense of justice, the brute had robbed him of a good deal of turkey schnitzel, after all.
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