A STORY OF A HOBO

Sorta-Thief (Part I)

The rain pattered relentlessly down on the galvanized steel roof,
making loud pitter-patter-y patters on the patter-prone roof. On other days,
the roof made different sounds. For example, last week, a garbage storm
came around and made mush-mush-mushes (not particularly appetizing,
especially when the scarce amount of food that you managed to find is
threatening to make a reappearance).

None of this touched Grist, though. He was hard at work cooking some
medi-paste into a partially edible soup. The pseudo-soup bubbled. Now
theres something appetizing!, he said to no one in particular. The soup
bubbled again. I swear, that rat meat looked tastier than this. (It actually
did, despite being a mix of smelly rat guts, coarse hair, and shiny bits of
who-knows-what.) He stuck his Plasti-Spoon into the bowl and left it to boil.

In the meantime, he was going to take a leak.

He pushed the curtains aside and stepped out into the thick, polluted
air. That small movement caused his small lean-to to buckle, flimsy as it was.
He took in a breath of the cleanest air he could find (a pipe nearby ejecting
bean-like matter and intermittent bursts of beany air), and made his way
across the trashy, hazardous landscape.

Grist had built his shelter next to a factory that claimed to be a
garbage processing center (he had actually snuck inside one night to catch a
glimpse of what must have been three dozen elephants simultaneously
taking a dump) that constantly vibrated at skull-rattling speed, causing the
stuff in his shelter to remain in permanent motion across the floor. It also
had the most ungodly smell, but that was not to be dwelled upon now. The
real reason why he had chosen the place was because the factory had just
about every porta potty model available in the massive garbage dump
nearby (actually, it was built on top of the thing).



Grist prided himself on being the best kind of hobo: the kind who used
porta potties. This was why he never spoke to other hobos; he was too
pretentious to even consider speaking with a non-potty hobo. Smirking as he
thought about this, he walked over to stall #63 (the one that had toilet
paper and some Newsscreen that somebody must have left there) and did
his business.

Today, the Newsscreens headlines were something about a new
plasti-polymer fiber that was supposed to revolutionize the paper industry.
As you might understand, the hobo didnt give a damn. He swiped over to
the classifieds. This was awaiting him:

WANTED: The Potty Thief

This dastardly villain has stolen yet another Sorta-Potty (Remember
The only brand on the market today that sorts out your waste! Only 600
pods!), and anyone who finds him will be rewarded with a free gallon of
REAL gasoline. His picture is on page 8.


Grist flipped over to page 8, wondering what sort of bastard would
have the balls to steal a Sorta-Potty (come to think of it, he was using one
right now). This picture greeted him



Ye most evile thief to walk the earth
-Judge Thanagan

The picture looked familiar but suave. It reminded him of an evil mix
between poodle and homosexual man, with sandpaper glued on for good
measure. Grist found it pretty normal by his standards. Not the kind to steal
Sorta-Potties. Definitely not that kind of guy. He imagined that guy to look
more like this:


He shuddered at the prospect of such an evil beast. He wondered why
mothers tried to scare their children with talk of demons and ghosts when
the real demons and ghosts were probably in their own neighborhoods and
they were stealing Sorta-Potties!

All those terrifying thoughts had emptied his bladder, and he bid
goodbye to stall #63. I shall plumb thy depths with straws of flax and
honey when I return, he said, quoting Shakespearean Toilet Humor for
Dummies (one of his three desert-island books).


He pattered across the patter-prone floor, thoughts pattering away in
his head.

On TVs, Bells, & Whistles (Part II)

The rain was turning into the most awful gale, so Grist went to his
lean-to in order to salvage his stuff. He didn't have much in the way of
salvageable stuff, though.



Oh, well. It was his fault for not keeping the interesting stuff he found
in the dump. When he first moved in about 3 years ago, he found an old TV
while clearing out trash to build his lean-to. TVs were (and still are) rare
and considered contraband by the Ministry of Entertainment, so he went and
sold it in the black market he got a healthy amount of cash for that. The
cash subsequently went towards a prosthetic leg (Because, you know, you
never know when you might need one). He still had the leg, and he never
regretted his purchase, but he always wondered how different his spare time
would have been if he had kept the TV.

Now was not the time to reminisce, though. Grist would need to find
ample dry space to stay in until the gale ended. When it rained, the smell of
wet garbage would waft up to his lean-to, so this time, he planned to find
somewhere new (and preferably scent-free).

He spotted a small ledge running around the perimeter of the factory,
about 50 feet up. That would be better than he needed He climbed up the
fire exit ladder (the factory had the worst security imaginable) and
clambered across windows and trash until he got to his destination.

The ledge was (thankfully) smell-free, and was pretty clean, save for
some pieces of wood and canvas scattered across the floor. The hobo patted
himself on the back and built a shelter. It had all the bells & whistles:


He sat down in his fancy-house and ate his medi-paste glop. Twas the
most awful tasting soup ever, but it made for some pretty acceptable medi-
paste. Full and feeling pretty satisfied with himself, Grist spread a bit of
canvas across the floor and slept.

(Part III)

Grist woke up to hear what sounded like a mangled fart played
through a harmonica. A stork! A messenger stork, to be precise. The things
were hideous, some sort of mutated ostrich with wings. But Grist found them
to be quite endearing. He kept one as a kid. At least, he thinks he did. Did
he? He peeped out the brown flaps of his house. The rain was gone.

Moving away from questions of identity, Grist reached into his
knapsack and pulled out a stork treat (Such was the payment for messages
by stork. The sender would confirm whether or not the message was paid for
by inspecting its stool the next day. Blue meant that the message was paid
for. Red meant that your stork had a hemorrhage, and that it probably
should be sent to a stork doctor). He got it from a black market dealer right
outside the factory gate. Looking back again, Grist remembered the dealer
being unusually ostrich-y. He wondered if the treat was legit.

The canvas of his fancy-house gave way easily to his hand. The
emaciated stork perched on one of the crossbars of the shelter. It gave a
curious look to Grist, then bent forward and let its jaw hang open. This was
the signal for feeding the treat. Should 3.2 seconds elapse without proper
treat-nourishment, the stork was given free reign to desecrate the receivers
home with a watery stink.

Grist chucked the treat in without delay, upon which the stork dropped
a coarse brown sack upon the ledge. It rolled over the floor, stopping at a
dusty location with a good ratio of sun and shade. The sack sat there for a
moment, looking at the pair. And then harmonica fart squeal! the stork
was slowly disappearing into the sky.

Hm. The sky. Grist hadnt really looked up since he exited his shelter,
some 30 seconds ago. High up in the sky, disappearing over a particularly
tall garbage mound, was a massive grey cotton cloud. That is, a regular
cloud. It must have been the height of 34 elephants stacked atop each other,
and that was a low estimate. Within its murky depths could be seen blue
flashes of electricity and dark crevasses of shadow.

But it was far away, far from Grist. Judging from its distance away
from the Factory, and based on its current speed, Grist, with a bit of quick
arithmetic (he had found a Chinese first-grade math textbook some time
back, and after perusing the thing for about 15 minutes, he had college-
ready math skills), thought it to have passed over him about three hours
back.