The sirens in the distance wail up and down in a most annoying pitch, warning the populace that trouble is coming.

As if they could run away fast enough.

I sit on the roof of my building and simply watch what is going on down the street. The TV has long ago gone dead. Watching the attack on TV had been entertaining in itself. Rogue must have been hungry and decided that this city would be a good place to snack. I watched on the TV as he thundered into town. The sirens were screaming in a nerve-jangling pitch designed by some experts to drive the big wolf away.

It worked for all of two minutes. I watched that powerful wolf's hands turn a corner of a building to rubble, then snatch up the chunks and hurl them at each siren nearby, smashing them into silence. By that time the streets were empty; Rogue knew how to fix that, though. Choosing a particularly tall building, he crouched and wrapped his arms around each side. I watched glass shatter and saw stress cracks appear in the concrete around the building. With a mighty grunt Rogue lifted the whole building up off it foundation, his feet sinking deeper into a street that was never designed to hold such incredible weight. I could see people falling from the bottom floor of the uprooted building. Some died instantly; others, stunned from the impact, managed to struggle to their feet and begin to stagger away.

Rogue grunted again and started to carry the building forward. With each pounding footfall the lower floors of the structure crumbled, dumping helpless people onto the street below. Most of them fell under Rogue's tread and were instantly splattered. When his foot lifted all that was left was utterly flat gore. Even the bones were crushed into dust from the combined weight of wolf and building. I sat fixated on the TV as they zoomed in on one helpless figure that fell halfway underfoot. His guts shut right out of his mouth and straight at the camera. Hollywood would have died for such a scene in a horror movie.

Rogue's muscles then bulged as he crouched slightly and tensed. With a mighty heave he hurled the building nearly half a block down the street. Smirking, he strode forward to the wreckage and started to pound it to bits -- right foot, left foot, BOOM..BOOM. The TV crews on the lurching street could no longer keep the shot steady, so they switched to aerial view, allowing me to keep watching as each massive foot undid in seconds what took weeks to build.

Satisfied with the building's destruction, Rogue turned and raised both fists, then struck out violently, punching right through a couple of buildings on either side of him. One collapsed instantly from the strength of the blow. People started to abandon the remaining building, streaming past Rogue's feet as a cruel grin spread across his muzzle. He licked his lips noisily and then reached down into the packed crowd. The TV cameras captured for posterity the last moments of dozens of human beings. On some stations you could even see them wiggling down his throat and his belly slowly bulging out as it filled. I thought that I could see people kicking at that belly from within, but I know that the news cameras are not that sharp. He ate them by the handful at first, but as more and more people vanished into his maw Rogue slowed his pace and began carefully choosing his victims one by one. One man was shown in closeup flailing wildly between Rogue's fingers as he was lifted toward the big wolf's mouth, when suddenly an anchorwoman cut in to announce that the military had arrived and that we were to stay in our homes.

As if we all hadn't seen just how little safety they offered.

The tanks roll up on all sides and immediately opened fire. Two or three shells hit Rogue squarely in the chest, but he barely flinched. I noticed that Rogue was dodging the rest the shells, moving with an agility I would not have thought possible from a creature his size. For a moment the scene was obscured by smoke, but suddenly Rogue bursts out of it, right on top of the tanks, and within moments he had decimated their lines. Some tanks he seized by the turret and hurled into the ranks of machine and man. Tanks and trucks explode into shrapnel that sliced the surrounding soldiers into hamburger meat. Heedless of the bullets that were splashing like raindrops against his fur, Rogue lifted another tank in both hands, his muscle rippling as he drove it downward, burying it gun-first a good nine or ten feet into the ground. Standing again, he placed his foot atop and pressed down. I could tell that he was enjoying the scream of tortured metal and trapped soldiers inside. He took his time crushing it, slowly shifting his incredible tonnage onto the tank until his full weight was on top of it. Smiling terribly, he twisted his foot back and forth over the tank until nothing was left but scrap metal.

Only two tanks remained by the time the air cover arrived. The fast planes swooped in with guns blazing, and all Rogue could do at first was try to duck their fire. For several moments he swatted at them, his anger rising each time they darted out of his reach. Growling, he crouched and grabbed one of the surviving tanks as it tried to crawl away. Raising it to his face, he peered inside with one great eye and snarled, "You're going to fire everything you have when I tap your top. You're not going to stop until I tap again. You do this, and I won't crush you."

The next wave of planes roared down toward him. Rogue hefted the tank before him and pointed it toward the oncoming aircraft. His claw thudded loudly on its turret once, twice...but the tank did not fire. Seething with rage, Rogue strode after the last tank, which was beating a hasty retreat from the onslaught, and dropped to his knees right in its path. Satisfied that the last tank was watching the demonstration, he put one hand flat on the bottom and one on the top of the errant tank. I watched those powerful arms bulge out and his chest strain as he pressed inward, crushing the tank flat between his hands like a soda can. Dark liquid -- gasoline? blood? -- trickled down from the mangled wreckage. Rogue hurled it aside and clapped his hand down on the last tank, trapping it. "Same deal," he rumbled, "and same fate if you don't do what I say. Understand?"

There was not even any hesitation before the tank's P.A. system sputtered out, "Yes, Sir!" Rogue smiled and turned the vehicle skyward as the jets screamed down toward him. His claw rang dully on the metal, and instantly the tank's guns started to chatter. They fired wildly at first, but Rogue used the tracer rounds to home in on the banking jets. Three of them turned into bright balls of fire before the tank ran out of ammunition. Frowning, Rogue shook it several times, and then bared his teeth and ripped the tank to shreds in his hands. With his fingers he pulled the screaming soldiers from the wreckage and tossed them into his mouth, gulping them down alive.

I had to smile. He was true to his word. He did not crush them.

The planes had not halted their attack. Infuriated, Rogue stalked through the streets and scooped up whatever projectiles he could find -- machines, chunks of concrete, men -- and flung them toward the planes. The cameras caught every hit. I watched jet after jet fall to Rogue's assault, the multimillion-dollar machines never designed to encounter into chunks of concrete at mach-one. The air attack was over within minutes.

Some pilots had managed to eject, and Rogue had his fun with them. He stood beneath one with his mouth open; the pilot kicked and yanked at his safety harness until the great jaws closed around him, nipping the parachute strings cleanly. Rogue ate him, chair and all. Others he would catch in a fist and lift to his face, to peer gleefully at their expressions as he crushed them in his bare hand. Another drifted helplessly straight down toward him, and Rogue made great sport of blowing the parachute upward and letting it drift back down. It was almost comical as the giant wolf crashed through streets and buildings to stay under his new toy, blowing it skyward again and again. Nobody was laughing, though.

After a while he tired of the sport and caught the parachute in his hand. The hapless pilot was limp, no doubt killed by the incredible forces exerted on his body by the ride. Rogue merely glanced at the body before he tore it free of the parachute and tossed it aside. The sky was now free of planes; airpower was no match for megawolf power.

Clutching the parachute in his hand, Rogue turned and kicked through a row of buildings onto a street which was still choked with fleeing refugees. The cameras were there, too, and caught him in all his glory. I was shocked to see that he was very visibly aroused -- shocked, that is, that the prudish television stations would show such a thing. Rogue's savage delight in the death and mayhem he was causing made it not the least bit surprising that he would have a hard-on from it.

He strode into the thick of the crowd, trampling them like insects, and then crouched and reached into the midst. How he learned his next trick can only be imagined. With his huge hand he scooped up dozens of wiggly bodies and dumped them into the parachute. He did this several times, until the chute bulged and jerked with its struggling cargo. The grin on his face was truly monstrous as he stood and, bracing his hand on a nearby building, lowered the parachute to his groin and thrust his erection into it. He shuddered, his tail wagging at the sensation, and gave the chute a squeeze. I watched bodies tumble from the chute and plunge to their deaths, but they were the lucky ones compared to those trapped inside. What it must have been like, ground mercilessly against that turgid flesh, enslaved for the giant's pleasure? When Rogue finally reached his climax there was nothing left but raw, red meat inside the parachute. His spurts tore right through the fabric and blasted great holes in the building ahead.

An eerie silence fell, broken only by Rogue's thunderous panting. I watched on TV as his powerful lungs sucked in air and expelled it again, each breath a hurricane. For a moment he sat down to rest and to devour the mangled remains of his playtoys, and then he gathered his feet under him and stood, and stretched grandly. He began to stroll away, the cameras following him as he casually made his way through the ruined streets. They caught him as he stooped to snatch up a handful of people who had taken refuge in an alley. He studied them in his palm for a tense moment, then balled his other hand into a fist and slammed it down on them. Instantly they were reduced to red paste, and with one clawed finger he paused to scrawl "Rogue wz here" on the roof of a warehouse.

That was when the news coverage ended. In a flash Rogue whirled toward the camera. I was breathless as I watched his hand descend toward the screen, his yellow eyes blazing beyond. The screen turned to snow; on the next channel I saw him grinning savagely as he ripped the cameraman apart between his fingers. The scene swung wildly before it stabilized again, showing Rogue thrusting his muzzle into the back of a news van, his jaw and throat working. The camera angle spun again and now showed a sideways view of the street; the cameraman could be seen fleeing for his life away from the scene. I switched channels again. The sound was of a man's thin scream. The image was of the bottom of Rogue's gigantic foot, filling the frame, its leathery sole painted with pressed meat in the vague shape of human bodies. It grew huge in the camera frame, and then that too went to snow.

There were no other channels showing coverage, so I came up here to the roof.

Rogue is not far away. His foot steps down on a gas station, which explodes. He leaps up and back with a bark of surprise, and then with a scowl he kicks tons of pavement and cars onto the fire. I notice that he is a little more careful about where he places his feet. It can't hurt him, of course, but why should he be annoyed by something he knows he can avoid? How sad that this, possibly the only weapon that could keep him at bay, should fail to be captured on film or by any witnesses, save myself?

He starts to head my way, which is on his way out of town. He long since stopped eating people and now just steps on the few that he finds on his way. He arrives at my building and catches sight of me. He grins, and his hand reaches for me. That is when I grab my bullhorn and call, "If you please, Sir, don't smush me just yet."

Rogue is surprised by this reaction. Obviously it's not something he is used to. Frowning, he bends down a little and brings his big wet nose close to me. "Why shouldn't I?" he thunders. "What makes you so special?"

His breath, reeking of meat and death, blasts over me, and I swallow and say, "Well, I have a story to tell you. After that you can decide my fate. OK?" Rogue licks thoughtfully up over his nose, his eyes narrowed, and then slowly sits down in the parking lot. Get that damned neighbor's car, I pray...Yes!

He regards me suspiciously. "OK. You tell. I listen. But that bullhorn hurts my ears. Use it again and I'll crush you this instant."

I throw the bullhorn over the side of the building and gather the papers I had been scribbling on. Stepping gingerly as close to the edge of the building as I dare, I begin to read.

"The sirens in the distance wail up and down in a most annoying pitch........"