As Grimshaw went on the yarn got crazier and closer to home. He saw things in the days before his hibernation that chill him to this day. He saw hundreds of capsules loaded with Nazi werewolves and hundreds more filled with undead SS soldiers called the scheintod soldat which meant something like soldiers who appeared dead or some crap like that.

These capsules were then smuggled into the United States one at a time thanks to the help of some rich and influential Hollywood players, namely an actress named Helga Freed. She played some big roles during the war and evidently used the money to buy “antiques” from all over the world. She would receive all manner of furniture and artifacts, and every single one of them was a Nazi monster capsule in disguise.

“I remember Helga Freed,” I said. “She was in that famous picture with what’s-iz-face . . . what a bitch.”

“Yes, quite.”

I started pacing around the room, alternating gestures between the hand holding the beer and the hand holding the smoke.

“So they smuggle hundreds of these capsules loaded with Nazi monsters into the country,” I deduced. “The purpose being to release the creatures all over the States, creating enough murder and mayhem to give the German fucks—no offense—the edge in the war.”

Grimshaw nodded. “Very good, Mr. McDonald. I am impressed. That was, more or less, the plan.”

“But then what happened? How did you get here? Why didn’t they use the capsules?”

Grimshaw smiled. “The war ended and Ms. Freed killed herself, fearing she would be exposed.”

“That doesn’t explain how you got out of the capsule.”

“I was never inside one of them,” Grimshaw said, watching my reaction carefully. “I escaped from the training facility the night before I was due to be packed away like some sort of fish in a can.”

I sat down. I had to think. There were too many factors to shuffle. It didn’t help matters I’d downed the better part of a twelve-pack and I was feeling pretty sloshed. Grimshaw was still sipping his first. Some German.

“Okay,” I said, holding up my fist and one finger. “We have you losing control of your ability to control being a werewolf, right?”

“Correct.”

“And we have a couple hundred capsules filled with similar Nazi aberrations somewhere in Los Angeles.”

“Very good.”

“So my question to you is . . . why now, unless this is just about you and the whole control thing?”

With this Grimshaw placed down his beer, adjusted his monocle, and stood. “I have something to show you.”

We took Paul’s car. It was the size of a tugboat and about as fast. Luckily we were only driving from Studio City to the Hollywood Hills so it was a pretty quick trip. In the driver’s seat, the chauffeur kept glancing at me through the rearview mirror. He had a huge head and sunken, black-circled eyes.

Next to me Grimshaw twitched.