Johnny Tredici was not by any means superstitious. For the last thirteen months he’d lived at 13 Tretton Avenue with his 13 tropical fish for company. His new-used car had no more than thirteen miles on the clock already, and was only bought thanks to the 1313 quid he’d won betting on horse #13 at the races.
It’s funny, really, that people can be so suspicious of one silly little number, he thought as he was driving to work at thirteen minutes past one in the afternoon, thirteen seconds before his body spontaneously combusted in the middle of the A13.
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