Ignoring your torn-apart, pissed-on clothes and computer, you approach Clay.
"Took you long enough," he wheezes. The old werewolf sprawls monstrously across your bed. He looks half like a Garou in crinos war-form, half like a marshmallow dropped in a campfire. His face is mostly intact, muzzle glistening wetly with blood and filth, but his lower body is a nightmare of corruption, especially his bowels, which have swollen monstrously. Your cereal bowl rests beside the bed, full of cigarette butts, and the air is hazy with tobacco smoke. Your green backpack, normally stored carefully beside the bed, is gone: either it dissolved or Scarper took it again.
"What have you found to fix this, boy?" Clay says. Black blood dribbles down his hairy chin.