An old request to continue the really old Were Island story, of a Were Air Flight crash landed on an island. Looking back, apologies that the appearances have varied so wildly - it's been many different models and iterations since starting. Think I'm starting to nail it down a bit though.

“You want to eat that?” Simon gagged, turning a nauseous green beneath his thick gold fur.

Their father crouched over the still-steaming boar carcass and extended a long, curved claw from one fingertip. He was getting better at that. He raked it down the boar’s flank; the skin parted cleanly, like a zipper, spilling out the glistening yellow fat within. He carved deeper, finding the red meat, tracing the fibres to the joints and cutting through the tendons.

“I don’t know about you two, but I’m starving. Hard to say when we’ll find food on this island. We should take as much as we can carry,” he said matter-of-factly.

"But it's raw," Simon gipped.

"We should probably cook it," dad said after a pause. “Whether we need to or not is another question. Jack, give me a hand with this. It’s like old boot leather.”

Jack found it strange how quickly his initial revulsion at the bloody task faded once he was up to his elbow in boar guts. He kept glancing at his father and the confident cuts he was making.

"Have you done this before?" he asked.

“Taken an animal with my bare hands? Not much call for that in accountancy, Jack. Seems like second nature, though.” His father frowned, thinking of the family housecat. “Do you remember when Muffin caught her first bird? She couldn’t have been more than a month old, but she knew what to do with it. Some of this must be innate.”

"Hopefully not too much. I'd rather not turn out like that little psycho," Jack muttered. "I was always the one sweeping up feathers behind her."

"Well you made quick work of this thing, no mistake." With a meaty squelch, the hindquarters came away. They slung a leg over their shoulders each. He looked down at the beast. “Shame to leave the rest of it.”

"We could bury it for later," the three of them said in unison.

Jack raised an eyebrow and laughed nervously. "Muffin always to bury her food bowl if she was too full to finish it. Damn, these instincts really creep up on you, huh?"

They continued heading downwards, following the stream, fronds sticking to their gory limbs as they pushed through the foliage, big black flies following behind. They broke through onto the shoreline. A cool breeze rolled in from the glittering ocean. A deep furrow had been ploughed into the sand. There was the cockpit, sheared off, nose down. Scattered along the length of the beach were twisted pieces of metal, inflatable vests, and vacuum-packed microwave meals. Beside a broken-open meal cart, a large pink creature lay on its back in the sun, scooping First Class caviar into its mouth with one trotter and potato chips with the other.

Jack broke into a run with an exclamation of delight. “It’s David! He made it out of the crash!”

“And he’s already eaten half the supplies!” his father hissed.