April 19th.
Jean Matthews felt especially confident and handsome in his beige polo shirt. He thought it emphasised his shredded physique quite well. He did like gawking and complimenting himself, but he hardly thought that qualified him as the self-absorbed type. He had top-shelf low self-esteem, after all.
It caught him right then, as he drove his Aston Martin into the parking lot.
His beloved car might have been a broken horse carriage when compared to some of the monstrous vehicles that rested in the adjacent parking lanes.
Jean meekly settled his car meekly between an extravagant Rolls-Royce and a glossy hammer limo.
Thankfully, the owners of the two cars had long disembarked and left. This spared Jean from the potential misery of finding them both to be wealthy werewolves, or worse yet, the embarrassment of having their judgemental stares mock him for his poverty.
