It had been raining all night.

The garden was muddy; the

pavements muddy, the roads muddy, the cars muddy, even the
people looked muddy.
The Hobo sat in the corner, back resting on a garbage dump, a
bottle of stale beer in one rough hand and the other stroking his
ruddy beard. He had stayed under the mills shed to be safe from
the rain and the mud. Even though a little rain would have
cleansed the dirt from his skin and probably lessened the stink
too. He sat besides the garbage dump, savoring the stink and the
beer, eyes dazed. The bees buzzing around him didnt disgust him
a little bit.
All of a sudden three SUVs came rushing, splashing mud on the
dumbfound Hobo. Out rushed armed suited men who all looked
like agents from a James Bond movie. The Hobo sat amazed as
they disappeared inside the mill and pulled the old miller out on
the street.
Out of the second SUV emerged a short old stout man. Wearing a
gold chain and glasses. The old man took out his revolver and
began shouting and cursing the miller. The Hobo thought about
the miller who had given him the shade and who occasionally
used to give him food and sometimes the beer too. Seeing his
benefactor in trouble made The Hobos blood pump fast.
Clenching his fist, froth coming out of his mouth he began running
towards the group. As he ran he threw the bottle of the stinking
stale beer which struck the old stout man right on the forehead.
He fell down on the spot. As he fell all the other guards turned
towards the Hobo with their guns out, yelling and shouting and
running after him.
The Hobo struck with the realization that now he was being
pursued ran for his life. He ran and ran until he left all the men
behind him. Then breathing heavily he turned into an alley and

began rummaging through the garbage as if nothing had

happened.