Out for a smoke after a dog-hard day. And y’know what, there were three Goddamn hours left to edit shit stories. Frankie was a chain-smoker. Nothin’ wrong with it. All the old journos were like that. It was distinguished. Gave him some respite from the grind. Course, the cigs were part o’ the grind. But they were as comforting as fresh coffee to anyone else. Nothin’ wrong with dat.

Quiet. Crickets. Damp air. Maybe a little chilly. Frankie was just tired. He took a thick drag.

Possum starin’ at him.

Was that a possum? They squinted at each other.

Possums don’t run this part of the city.

Possums don’t have human faces.

Oh, fuck. That’s no possum. Orange sparks fell on the pavement as Frankie took a step back and his comfort ran south.

The face stared at him. Where the fuck was this kid’s body? Then it was gone.

Sure ran off like a possum, ‘cept for the fact it didn’t have damn legs or a torso. Fuck. Frankie shuddered, and the wind whipped.

Never did see that thing again.

Back to the grind.