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Werewolves: The Apocalypse — The Book of Hungry Names
(Now with 98% more ecological guilt and 100% less graphics)

You and your band of traumatized werewolves (read: a group of poorly resolved furry therapists) must save the Living Earth using two infallible ingredients: homicidal rage and questionable spirituality.

In this interactive novel with hundreds of choices (most leading to inevitable doom), you'll have the chance to face a Wyrm Spirit that manifests itself as... a lie you really want to believe. Like that voice that says "I'll start my diet tomorrow." Only with more cosmic destruction.

 Written by Kyle Marquis and set in the wonderful (cough) universe of World of Darkness, this epic without a single image (but with 1.6 million words, in other words, an abusive relationship with reading) is fueled solely by the most powerful thing in the world: your imagination that has already failed three college entrance exams.

You are a werewolf. And like all good werewolf, you are a mix of:

Shaman who thinks meditation cures demonic migraines,

Hero that nobody asked for,

Monster with existential crises,

And sustainability consultant for Mother Gaia (bankrupt, of course).

Created by the goddess of the Earth, you were gifted with the ability to turn into a wolf (in other words, walk around naked with style), and tasked with the noble mission of preventing humanity from turning the planet into a cosmic McTrash.

But guess what? You failed. Congratulations.

 Three years ago, your pack was part of the Sept of Broad Brook, Massachusetts (land of maple syrup and spiritual doom), where werewolves still pretended they had a chance against the Wyrm — the spirit of destruction, chaos, and people who comment “first” on YouTube.

While other Septs fell like dominoes at a satanic rave, yours was there, firm, strong, and deluded. Some said you would prevent the Apocalypse. Others just thought it was funny to watch the circus burn.

Now, all that’s left is for you to pick up the pieces (literally), avoid becoming an evil spirit’s kibble, and, who knows, write your name in the Book of Hungry Names — the one that eats hopes, New Year’s promises, and happy endings.

Do you want me to adapt this to become the introduction to chapter 1 as well?

Of course! Here's a Desciclopédia-style warning, with a touch of acid and humor, that you can put at the beginning of your story on Wattpad to make everything clear:

WARNING BEFORE SOME LITIGIOUS SPIRIT COMES TO BARK

This work is a humorous reinterpretation (read: full of irony, sarcasm, dark humor and some inconvenient truths) based on the style of interactive stories like those from Choice of Games. But, before anyone calls the lawyers or invokes the spirit of copyright, let's make something VERY clear:

This is not plagiarism. It's parody. It's a joke. It's entertainment.

(And, let's be honest, not even Mother Gaia would bother to sue.)

The writing adopted follows the Desciclopédia style, that is:

Nothing is sacred.

Everything can be a joke.

If you get offended, congratulations, the system worked.

 This is a tongue-in-cheek homage to the classics of the genre, using the interactive format to tell stories that are bizarre, tragic, hilarious, and incredibly stupid (sometimes all at the same time). None of the original Choice of Games content was copied directly—only the structure was inspired, because let’s face it, reinventing the wheel is a lot of work.

If you want an epic journey with deep moral dilemmas, go play the original.

If you want to laugh at your own misfortune while turning into a werewolf and punching mystical capitalism with your paws, go ahead. It’s your house.

Zerk World) Zombo Stars

With pleasure! Here is Chapter 3 rewritten with the acidic, dark and mocking humor of Desciclopédia style — as if a werewolf had watched too much "Cidade Alerta" and read Nietzsche for fun:

Chapter 3 – The Werewolf, the Fat Moon and the Monster with Fly Flatulence

The gibbous moon (a fancy word for "not full, but almost there") is hanging in the sky as if it had taken a beating from gravity and was drunk, trying to remember where it parked the car. It looks like a zeppelin about to fall, and honestly, if it exploded in mid-air, it would be just another normal Tuesday for you.

When it gets close to the treetops, it becomes gigantic — like "a big IMAX movie screen showing the trailer for a horror movie where you are the protagonist."

The Milky Way? You can barely see it. It must be on vacation. It disappeared between the trees to the east and the red-hot glow of Buffalo, to the west. How romantic, if you liked the smell of fried mosquitoes and the constant threat of supernatural death.

But this moon is telling a story. One of those confusing ones, like when your drunk uncle tries to explain how "Brazil was robbed in the World Cup." Only with less beer and more spiritual meaning.

What does it all mean? Good question. No one knows. Not even the moon. And honestly, most stories don't make sense anyway. (Have you seen Fast and Furious 9?)

But you know one thing for sure, even if you're just a furry puppy fresh out of puberty:

You have to make some noise. Yell to the universe: "I DID IT, GET IT?!"

The story needs to be told. Because otherwise it'll just turn into another dirty, stuffy mystical hangout in the woods, and no one wants that. Not even Bane. He has self-esteem.

After all, you are a Galliard — the storyteller, the showman, the spiritual influencer of the Garou Nation. Your job is to slay monsters and tell stories while dancing in their blood.

The biting wind changes direction and Bane takes a step. Just one. Because drama is important.

Your body begins to disintegrate into a cloud of flies — like a medieval plague cosplay with special effects from a CW series. You smell the others:

Are they coming? Are they lost? Are they at the bar? Who knows. The important thing is that they are not here now, and Bane can still run off into the forest like a cockroach afraid of flip-flops.

You read "The Sign of the Burnt Hand" — that book that looks like it was printed on a printer from the 80s with a smell of mold and collective trauma.

You have already assumed your Ideal Form.

(Dramatic pause. Epic music playing in the background. Maybe a howl in C minor.)

If you want, I can turn this content into a narration for a video or even do a satirical summary of the entire story as if it were a bizarre documentary. Want to follow that path?