The garbage trailed off quickly as the tunnel brightened. This part looked new, with utilitarian lights that were part of the actual sewer system, but with tags hidden in corners and on sills that marked this as the border of the Underground. We went north for maybe a quarter mile until we could hear the squeal of a train overhead, and then Spleen pried open a dingy, metal door and gestured down a dirt-encrusted, well-warded stairwell.

"After you, my dear," he said.

"Fuck that," I said.

"I'm just messin with ya," he said, and led the way down.

Here, there was no light other than a dim, yellow, fluorescent wand he carried as he stumbled down worn steps. The stairwell switchbacked through a grim, cinderblock shaft-one flight, two flights, three flights, four: by my count, three stories beneath the streets, maybe more. The door doubled back the way we came, revealing a wider, vaulted tunnel, paralleling the one above us, filled with still, black water. A rowboat floated in the bile, waiting.

"You have to be kidding," I said, as Spleen got in the boat.

"The old Confederate runoff tunnel," he said, looking down into the water. "Or maybe a secret train tunnel that got flooded. Everyone who knows… is looong dead."

"Let's get this over with," I said, getting in behind him grumpily.

"Ready? Ready. Ready!" Spleen said, pushing off and clambering forward to grab the oars. "You sit yourself back and enjoy the ride."

"Whatever you say, Spleen," I sighed.

The bastard grinned, and then started singing.

"We're off to see the werewolf," he warbled terribly, and my blood grew cold. "The wonderful werewolf of Krog. He is the were the wonderful were-"