Jimmy looked like a normal squirrel. He scampered through people's yards in the neighborhood with the other squirrels, he ate lots of seeds out of bird feeders, and he tormented cats sitting in windows by frolicking in their yards right under their uppity cat noses. But Jimmy had a secret: every month, on nights of the full moon, he turned from a squirrel into a werehamster.
Werehamsters, if you have not encountered them before, closely resemble normal hamsters except they have inch-long fangs, often speak in Eastern European accents, and have an insatiable craving for the flesh of small mammals, usually pets. However, due to an unfortunate incident involving hamsterbane and a clever gypsy, Jimmy ended up stunted, twisted and frankly pretty small whenever he underwent the dramatic and painful metamorphosis into his werehamster form (as depicted in many movies). This made Jimmy depressed and adversely affected his social life.
Every evening during the full moon, all the other neighborhood werehamsters would gather together and plan gruesome and gory deeds. They often chose to work together as a pack because it was very difficult for a lone werehamster to bring down a German Shepherd all by himself. As a result, the little monsters would often meet underneath a piece of plywood behind the garage of the house on the corner to brag about their prowess at throat ripping and plan their evening's carnage as a group. Jimmy always tried to show up for these meetings because he desperately wanted to be a really bad werehamster just like the others, but to no avail – Jimmy was the littlest werehamster, and had lots of trouble with the whole werehamster gig of eating pets and other small animals. The other werehamsters wanted nothing to do with him, and often told him to show up at the wrong garage, or said that the meeting was at 10PM when it was really at 8PM. This made Jimmy sad, so many nights Jimmy had to try to savage the local wildlife all by himself.
Jimmy would creep along by the light of the gibbous moon and attempt to hamstring a tomcat, but he always seemed to miss and grab a mouthful of fur instead. He would lurk in the shadows as a rabbit ran by on its way to the garden and then jump out to lock his teeth on the bunny's throat, but Jimmy would always snap his pointly little fangs on air instead of on rabbit. No matter who he seemed to hunt, invariably his prey would outwit, outrun or just plain ignore Jimmy as he gave his fierce growl and sprang. Poor little Jimmy would always end up on his little werehamster butt and the prey would always run off giggling. (Jimmy's fierce growl sounded much like an indignant cricket to many of his would-be meals, which briefly confused them but certainly did not paralyze them with fear as Jimmy intended.)
Because of this lack of hunting ability the other werehamsters teased Jimmy unmercifully. “You should be a normal hamster and a weresquirrel,” they would say mockingly. “That way you could viciously attack acorns and walnuts. Maybe then you'd get yourself a victim or two. Nuts don't run very fast.” Then they would all fall down laughing at how clever they were and at how much Jimmy sucked.
Eventually, Jimmy tired of this teasing and quit even trying to attend the Werehamster Carnage Society meetings. Instead of attacking chihuahuas and the occasional scrawny alley cat, Jimmy would hunker down underneath an azalea bush with a Slim Jim and mutter to himself. “I'll show those guys,” he'd say. “Someday they'll regret fucking with little Jimmy.”
Sadly, in this he was mistaken. Eventually Jimmy was killed with a silver BB, fired from a Daisy air rifle by a neighborhood kid who was actually aiming at the basement window of the house next door. So the other werehamsters never once regretted fucking with little Jimmy, and in fact told Jimmy stories for many months after his demise.
Even today, if you hide near the plywood behind the garage on the corner during the full moon, you can still hear the other werehamsters laughing uproariously at how much Jimmy sucked. But be careful not to snicker out loud at the stories because, unlike little Jimmy, an enraged herd of bull werehamsters is not something to fuck with. If they hear you, they'll be on you like land piranhas and all anyone will ever find of you is your belt buckle. Some of the “little Jimmy” stories are worth the risk though, especially the way the other werehamsters tell them, so maybe you'll decide to take your chances on a remarkably grisly death and try to hear them anyway. Just remember to bring along a clean gym sock to stuff in your mouth during the punch lines and you'll probably be fine.