Rory Blackfang was no longer a man, a wolf, or even a functioning member of society. He was a prisoner of his own pants, held hostage by a redwood that had officially declared itself Emperor of Bonerland. Day three of the Hornpocalypse had dawned, and Rory's libido was now a cosmic entity, possibly worshiped by ancient civilizations. His inner wolf was a gibbering mess, alternating between writing love poems to an unseen mate and dry-humping the air in despair. Mrs. Howlsworth's "your mate's close" prophecy was both a lifeline and a curse—Rory was dying to meet her, but first, he was just plain dying. He needed relief, or he'd start humping fence posts in front of the pack. The universe, however, was still directing this comedy shitshow, and it had a full season of torture planned.
The Yoga Yelping
Desperate for *any* solution, Rory decided to try Luna's stupid yoga app again. If meditation failed, maybe downward dog could tame Emperor Redwood. He snuck into the pack's rec room at dawn, before the others woke up, and fired up the app on his cracked phone. A soothing voice cooed, "Breathe into your sacral chakra, where passion flows." Rory growled, "My sacral chakra's about to blow a gasket," but he followed along, contorting into poses that made his jeans scream for mercy.
He was mid-"warrior pose," one hand dangerously close to his war zone, when the door burst open. Luna, decked out in neon spandex that looked like a unicorn had barfed on her, shrieked, "RORY! You're doing MY YOGA? Join my live stream!" Before he could protest, she'd propped her phone on a chair, broadcasting to her 47 followers. "Look, guys, Rory's unlocking his inner wolf! Say hi!"
"LUNA, I'M GONNA KILL YOU!" Rory roared, toppling out of the pose and landing on a yoga ball that *popped* with a sound like a gunshot. His redwood, unfazed, tented his pants like a circus big top. The live stream chat exploded with wolf emojis and "IS HE OKAY?" Luna, oblivious, zoomed in. "He's *so* passionate about yoga, y'all!"
Rory scrambled to his feet, yanking a couch cushion over his crotch, which only made it look like he was smuggling a watermelon. His wolf howled in shame as he fled, Luna's voice echoing, "Subscribe for more wolf wellness!" The app droned on: "Feel the release." Rory wanted to punch it.
The Hardware Store Humiliation
Okay, new plan: distraction. Rory drove to the town's hardware store, figuring manual labor might kill his libido. He'd buy supplies to fix the cabin's leaky roof—anything to keep his hands busy and not, well, *busy*. The store smelled of sawdust and despair, perfect for his mood. He was browsing hammers, muttering to himself, when his redwood decided to salute a display of plumbing pipes. "Not now," he hissed, adjusting his stance like a cowboy in a bad western.
That's when Mrs. Howlsworth appeared, because of course she did, pushing a cart full of duct tape and suspicious herbs. "Rory, you look like you're smuggling a crowbar," she cackled, her unibrow dancing. "Mate's scent's stronger today. Bet she's in town, maybe at the coffee shop." She leaned in, sniffing. "Moon's sake, boy, get a grip—*not* like that!"
Rory, mortified, grabbed a random wrench and held it over his crotch, only to knock over a tower of paint cans. The crash drew every eye in the store, including a human cashier who yelled, "Sir, no horseplay near the adhesives!" A can of neon orange paint burst, splattering Rory's pants in a way that made his redwood look like a construction hazard. He fled, Mrs. Howlsworth's laughter chasing him like a hyena on steroids.
The Pack Ritual Ridicule
Back at the cabin, the pack was prepping for a "moon blessing" ritual, some nonsense tradition to honor the upcoming full moon. Rory figured he could hide in the chaos, maybe sneak off during the howling to handle his situation. The pack gathered in a clearing, dressed in mismatched furs and holding candles that smelled like burnt hair. Rory lurked at the back, his redwood throbbing like it was trying to summon the moon itself.
He was about to slip into the bushes when Derek, shirtless and flexing like a discount Thor, grabbed him. "Rory, you're leading the chant! Show some pack spirit!" Before Rory could protest, he was shoved to the center of the circle, where Luna was waving sage like a deranged shaman. "Feel the moon's energy!" she chirped, smudging him with smoke that made his eyes water and his redwood *pulse*.
The pack started chanting, "Moon guide us, moon bind us," and Rory, panicking, tried to join in. But his wolf, drunk on hormones, turned it into a primal yowl that sounded like a mating call. The pack froze. Zeke snorted, "Dude, you sound like you're proposing to the forest!" Luna's phone was out again, live-streaming. "Rory's channeling his mate vibes, y'all!"
Humiliated, Rory bolted into the woods, tripping over a root and landing face-first in a patch of nettles. His redwood, apparently immune to pain, stood prouder than ever. The pack's laughter echoed, and Derek yelled, "Save it for your mate, man!"
The Lake Letdown
Last resort: the lake. Rory hiked to a secluded cove, figuring a skinny-dip in freezing water would finally kill Emperor Redwood. He stripped, dove in, and let the icy water hit him like a slap from an angry goddess. For one glorious moment, he thought it worked—until he reached down and realized his redwood was now a *frozen* redwood, still standing like a cursed icicle.
He was about to give up when a splash startled him. "RORY, YOU NUDIST!" It was Zeke, cannonballing into the lake with a whoop, followed by Derek and Luna, who'd apparently decided the ritual needed a swim party. "Moon's calling us to cleanse!" Luna shrieked, splashing Rory with water that felt like betrayal.
"GET AWAY FROM ME!" Rory bellowed, flailing to cover himself. His redwood, unbothered by the cold, bobbed like a buoy, drawing Zeke's attention. "Bro, that thing's got its own zip code! You sure you're not possessed?" Derek, ever helpful, tossed a rubber ducky that bounced off Rory's head. Luna, filming again, narrated, "Rory's embracing his primal side!"
Rory swam to shore, grabbed his clothes, and ran, his wet jeans chafing like sandpaper. His wolf was now composing a suicide note in iambic pentameter.