It had been a long day and the Wabbit had turned up nothing from the markets. He made his way along the porticos deep in thought, but something was nagging. Something more than thinking. Something palpable. "I don't remember that mural," he muttered. "I remember you, Blue Glasses." It seemed to come from inside his head but the voice echoed round the portico roof. From the corner of his eye the Wabbit saw his ears make pointed shadows on the sidewalk and as he hopped they curled slightly towards him. The Wabbit quickened his pace. "We're looking for the same thing, you and I." This time, the Wabbit knew the voice was behind him. Keeping both eyes fixed ahead, the Wabbit shrugged. "I'm just looking for an old album." His voice was the merest whisper but the ghostly voice responded. "I want it too. It has my sign, it's my due." "I've seen no sign of a sign," whispered the Wabbit, "but if I see one, I'll let you know." The Wabbit heard a long laugh. "How can I trust you?" "Trust me as you would yourself," said the Wabbit quickly. Jagged flickers of light crept along the roof but the Wabbit ignored them and gazed steadfastly into the night. Up ahead he could see tables and chairs and people dining on pizza and chips. "The devil's work," shuddered the Wabbit. A cold blast split the evening, chilling the Wabbit's fur and bringing howls from the diners. At that moment, something Skratch told him popped into his head. "Every sign has two sides." "Just like a record album," thought the Wabbit. "Just like me," howled the Voice ...
