[ WP ] When you were seven , you inherited the family curse : transforming into a _____ when you 're angry .

Healthy. Adventurous. Chiseled. These all described Bart Dougle, a man well liked by the women in his office. Bart was famous for his Free Donut Fridays, and his monthly extra-curricular meetings. Usually, this meant poker and beer with the rest of the guys in Accounting. 
 
 Each month the accountants would hold an unofficial contest to determine the hosting rights for this unofficial meeting. While the whole event was meaningless on a business level, the competition was fierce among the'counters to hold host to the great card-off. 
 
 Lovel, a soft-spoken man in his middle ages, was the previous top contender to host the event. This was before Bart arrived on the scene, of course. Dougle was a born winner: he played soccer in college, dated ( and later married models ), and had claimed hosting rights for 12 months. Lovel hated this. His record was in jeopardy. He had to win this month, at any cost. He had to be the first to 13. 
 
 Participants in the game had to follow a certain set of rules. Not only did they need to have a perfect monthly record with HR, they also needed to collect the most golden stars. Golden stars were another unofficial thing. They were handed out via a blind vote system. 
 
 More or less, each participant was allowed to vote for who they thought should host based off of how good of a'counter they had been over the past week. They were n't allowed to vote for themselves, and anyone caught doing so would automatically lose their stars for the month. The'counters took pride in being an `` underground'' organization in the office, and had made up a series of secret codes, hand signals, and email lists that were supposed to be kept secret at all costs. 
 
 Each day, the top ranked'counter for the month would set a new code and new terms for the rules. This, of course, would keep the game in their favor, but anyone able to beat the creator at their own game would earn bonus stars as determined by the blind ballots. 
 
 In the event that a'counter was caught doing something related to the group in public they would be considered doing a poor job. Lovel and Bart were the only two'counters that could consistently get away with flashing signs or slipping code into meetings or emails. This earned them respect and high regard from the other'counters. 
 
 As usual with groups like this, popularity tended to dictate the pace of balloting. Certain players were voted for more because they were attractive, or bold, or otherwise brought attention to themselves. 
 
 Mercia was one such player. She had only won hosting rights once. Mercia was, like Bart, gorgeous. She was shapely, graceful, and had the kind of voice that could send sailors to their graves. It was only one victory for Mercia's'counter career, but her victory was carved into the history of the game in the biggest of ways. 
 
 Twelve. That was the current record. Lovel's record. One that he had to break. Of course twelve was n't enough. Not for Lovel. Last year, he had suffered defeat at the hands of a rookie, a tenderfoot, a greenhorn. Mercia had swooped into his office, seduced his men, and dragged his ship beneath the waves kicking and screaming every step of the way. 
 
 Ridiculous, it was argued. As such, it was determined, that players needed to write a reason for their vote onto their ballots. `` She's a fox,'' was no longer considered a valid contribution to the game. Never mind the fact that she had hosted a great meeting, it just was n't right. Lovel made sure that the others were aware of that fact. 
 
 And just like that, the game was changed. Bart was the only threat now, having won every month since Mercia's victory. Since he had reached twelve. Mercia was only decent at playing the game, and with her attractiveness no longer a weapon, she was effectively neutered. It was only a matter of days - 30 days exactly - before Lovel would match his record of twelve. But even still, twelve was n't going to be enough. 
 
 Perhaps a little bit more detail is required. You see, when Lovel was a child, he had lived near the bayou down south in Louisiana. His father used to take him out into the swamps and tell him stories of his grandfather's exploits. 
 
 Passing tales of skirt chasing and war, mostly, but one fable would always show itself near the time of the full moon. `` Always remember your name, Lovel,'' his father would tell him. `` When you are scared or alone, just make sure you have a friend that knows your name.'' 
 
 Essentially the story goes as such: Lovel's grandfather was a soldier of fortune during The Great War. As a man of color, he felt it necessary to prove himself in Europe by claiming a wife. This did n't work out too well for him, and he left for home empty handed. 
 
 Dejected and run down by the horror of war, he spent many nights out on the rivers and in the swamps. He pushed along in a small boat just like the one Lovel would sit in as his father told him tales, as he had been told. 
 
 So, with the sun long past, and under a full moon, is when the incident occurred. Lovel's grandfather found a battered and injured young woman on some mangrove roots out in the swamps. Her boat had sunk, and so he offered to take her home and patch her up. 
 
 As he took her deeper and deeper into the Mississippi's brackish runoffs, the woman started fiddling with her pockets. A veteran, Lovel's grandfather knew something was n't quite as it should have been. He did n't trust this woman. 
 
 Young or old, this man was always sharp. It's what pulled him through the war. He was lost in the swamps with a woman he suddenly did n't trust. They approached this woman's house, a solitary shack out in the dark of the overgrowth. 
 
 `` Make no mistake about it, granddad was armed,'' his father would tell Lovel. `` In fact, that's what got you into this mess.'' 
 
 `` You always say that,'' Lovel would mumble. This story scared him at first, but he'd heard it a hundred times by now. As the story went, granddad was attacked by his woman, only to be overpowered. His father would say - usually with a pause and uncertainty in his voice - that he did n't really know what happened, only that granddad did n't kill her. Granddad was n't the same after that night, however. 
 
 Now, 40 odd years later, Lovel bore the curse of his grandfather's actions. He did n't believe in his dad when he was a kid. That is, until the night his father took Lovel out to that shack in the swamps of the Mississippi. 
 
 And just like that, the game had changed. It had taken him decades to piece it all together and figure out where he was, but he figured it out. There was only one way out of his predicament: he needed to host that record 13th meeting. 
 
 Maybe he could have gotten out of this sooner, had he been smarter in his youth. As soon as his father brought him into that house, he could tell from the air that it was n't right. An old woman sat on the floor surrounded by candles, a book opened in front of her. The last thing Lovel remembered before his life as an accountant began was his father's words: `` I'm sorry, son, but you do n't break a blood oath with a swamp witch.'' 
 
 Eventually someone would read this book, right? And, when they did, they'd understand his plea, and what he wanted them to do for him? They would understand why the codes and gestures were so important, why he had to beat Bart, why Mercia could n't cheat again? Why the meetings were the *most* important part of his story, why the rules mattered? They would know what to do... right? You do understand?
