Sir Peter the White KnightHe runs around in his underwear, oblivious to the fact that his body is the product of the consumption of a hundred Big Macs. His nose is constantly running, his belly flab always hovering about three inches from his knees. He smells like old socks.
This is the neighbourhood creeper.
There's one on every street. The creepy old man that looks through teenage girls' windows at night. The crazy guy who sits outside his house, just staring into the blank space ahead of him for hours on end. The whacked out old lady who stands by her window, just waiting for someone to run the stop-sign, or a couple to show indecent attention to each other. The woman who shovels at ten o'clock at night. She shovels when the snow comes. When the snow stops, she shovels. Even when there is no snow on the driveway, she still shovels and when summer comes she sweeps.
The epidemic of the neighbourhood creeper has spread throughout the streets of suburbia, and indeed, to the rest of the city. Ev