Sunday afternoon walking to Trader Joes, me and Mike were stopped by a crack head. He was early twenties with wild eyes, long stringy hair, and no shirt. He was also moderately buzzed.

“HEY MAN WHAT HAPPENED TO YOUR LEG!” He goggled at me, hairy belly bouncing.

I looked down. The only thing wrong with my leg was the ace bandage wrapped around it to support my pulled muscle.

“Shark bite,” I told him.

“NO WAY MAN! REALLY?? YOU WANT TO SEE A SHARK BITE! I GOT A SHARK BITE RIGHT HERE!”

And he showed me. He opened his belt (“Oh, God!” I shouted), unbuttoned his trousers (“No, you don’t have to show me!” I cringed), revealing white cotton bikini cut briefs with a pattern of bright red cherries (I tried to look away but couldn’t), and torn across his thigh was the scar. Huge, puckered, pink and awful. A shark bite.

And this is why we should never tell lies.