A month ago, I was on Whyte avenue.
He came from the shadows, brown corduroy jacket over Black Keys T-shirt, beard unkempt, fedora at an angle on his head. We collided, and it happened.
The fucker bit me!
I went home, cleaned the wound and went to sleep. I’d heard the legends, obviously, but never given them heed. They’re old wives tales, and I’ve no time for superstition.
But now a month’s past. The full moon hangs in the sky, and I’m fearful. What if the legends are true?
Because right now, I can’t stop listening to Hot Hot Heat…
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