Curse Of The Weretroll
Ever since I had unprotected sex with a lady troll in my youth I've been afflicted by occasional bouts of trollism that come upon me suddenly when the sun is out and the humidity is high. A transformation takes place turning my body into that of a below-bridge-dweller. Fortunately, I already have the build of a below-bridge-dweller so ripped clothes are a rarity and one irritating post-transformation expenditure is ruled out.
But what's it like being a weretroll? I hear you ask (super-sensitive hearing is one of the bonus side-effects).
Well, bridges become suddenly fascinating; it's partly the shade, partly the sudden appreciation for the wonders of concrete, and partly the great acoustics that accompany singing of which there is a lot. Luckily, it's below the audible register of humans or Simon Cowell would be bothering our kind all the time. The colour receptors in the eyes deactivate during periods of being a troll but eyesight is augmented with a chemical texture awareness; it's difficult to explain, you'd really need to be a weretroll to understand it, and I'm afraid I don't know your sexual history well enough to sleep with you. And I don't want to know either. Finally, you do get an unquenchable craving for cyclists. It might be a lycra thing or maybe just the tickling sensation of the spokes at the back of the throat. Yum. Strangely, though, when I'm back in human form I don't like cyclists at all.
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