Pack of crisps in hand, Charlie Adam stepped out of the shop and into the moist late Spring air. Dressed in his favorite replica Liverpool FC jersey, with shorts to match, he stopped and sniffed. His season recently concluded, Adam was a now a man with time on his hands. Time to pursue his real interests. He ambled down the sidewalk to his car, pushing gruffly past an elderly couple. Mouthful of crisps, he twisted his head back and muttered, "Fuschaff!" As he turned around again he realized someone was standing in front of him, between him and the car, leaning casually against the hood.
It was Sandro.
"Fusch ooh aunt?" He spit out a chunk of crisps. "Fuck you want?"
Sandro smiled. "I told you I was watching you."
Adam chuckled. "Aye, I saw that. You’re the beast, huh?"
"No." Sandro reached behind his back and produced a large machete. "That’s what the fans call me. I’m not the beast."
Adam looked around. The elderly couple was gone. In fact, the entire street was empty.
"I’m not the beast," Sandro repeated. "I’m the beast hunter."
Adam dropped the remainder of the crisps and ran. The sound of laughter followed him up the street.
He turned down an alley and hugged the wall, heaving in shallow, ragged breaths. It was a damn shame he was so out of shape.
"Ooooh Charlie Adam, I’m coming for you," Sandro sang merrily, the machete blade scraping the concrete.
Adam backed further into the alley, his jersey now drenched in sweat and crisp crumbs. He paused and cocked his head to one side.
He felt a tap on his shoulder. Adam spun, aiming a clumsy right fist. Sandro ducked and swept a leg through Adam’s feet, sending him flopping onto his back. As the machete wooshed downward toward his neck Adam’s eyes flicked yellow. His mouth gaped, exposing four sets of brown, rotting teeth.
"Ohh fusch me!"