Out in London

In hindsight it was clear that Warren Zevon had ruined it for them all. Seamus had been living in Notting Hill in '78 when the song had come out and made their curse fashionable. Everyone tired of leading their double life had come out and it seemed for them the nights went from telly and Guiness to free drinks and fingers through your fur. The whole community showed up to see two of his old friends off when they'd carpooled out to the country for full moon, and Seamus thought, fuck it, what am I waiting for. When they got back, he'd shown everyone. The next weeks were nonstop parties. He'd been attending classes at the London School of Economics but he'd missed so much it wasn't likely they'd take him back. At the time it seemed not to matter. Every night was a new adventure and you never had to pay for anything. By 1980 nobody cared about that song anymore. There had been too much blood. If all you do is drink and party, you lose track of the days, even if you're a werewolf. News kept emerging of parties turning to bloodbaths in the early evening on full moon nights, strung out young men and women carving up their fair-weather-friends like Christmas geese in main rooms of pubs and in fashionable flats all over the city. Over night it wasn't cool anymore. He was known by that point, and his identity a matter of public record. No one would rent to him. No one would give him a job. He'd never killed (a person) and yet they treated him like worse than a criminal. They treated him like a monster. Even the wogs wouldn't touch him. But time passed and now he was less of a Bogeyman and more of a joke. That worked fine for a busker, though, and with the 10 or so quid he earned a day he could at least afford to keep his clothes clean. He hadn't done "private work" for anyone in over two years, and he was honestly starting to enjoy playing the fiddle. He was actually getting quite good.