days. This way I get a meal, cash, clothes and whatever else he's got that I want. My going our clothes stay clean since I let him get me out of them before I feed.
For the next few days, I'll wear one of his shirts around the house. If any friends come looking, I answer the door, and, well, who's going to disturb the guy who just got some? It would be three or four days before the neighbors would start complaining about the smell.
Truth be told, even before I died, I knew how to pull a good con. I'd always lived off of other people, only now it was literal. It wasn't until the last couple decades that I realized what a fucked choice that is. The lives I affected weren't isolated. These people had people who cared about them. That's when I decided to stop. I figured I'd live on animals, whatever I could catch; and for a while I did, but it couldn't give me what I needed. I got weaker, thinner, my eyes looked huge and sunken. Soon, I wasn't fast enough to catch anything.
3.
I'm huddled against a concrete wall under the freeway one night when I hear them; maybe five young guys all bombed out of their minds. On the opposite end of the wall, between me and these guys, there's an old man talking to himself and swatting at imaginary flies; your garden variety crazy.
The young guys, they’ve all got beer bottles about half empty. One of them spots the old bum, minding his own business, and he stops the others and they all get quiet. One of them, a stocky guy in a backwards hat, walks up to the bum and squats down to face him.
“Hey," he slurs, breathing beer in the crazy’s face.
The old man huddles up tighter, turns his face away, but otherwise this punk gets nothing.
“Hey," he says a little louder.
The man’s still talking to himself and knocking his flies around, and this dumb shit, he straightens himself out, standing over the poor schizo, and yells, "Hey!"
He hooks a sneaker into the guy’s ribs.
“I’m talking to you, you crazy fuck!"
For the next few days, I'll wear one of his shirts around the house. If any friends come looking, I answer the door, and, well, who's going to disturb the guy who just got some? It would be three or four days before the neighbors would start complaining about the smell.
Truth be told, even before I died, I knew how to pull a good con. I'd always lived off of other people, only now it was literal. It wasn't until the last couple decades that I realized what a fucked choice that is. The lives I affected weren't isolated. These people had people who cared about them. That's when I decided to stop. I figured I'd live on animals, whatever I could catch; and for a while I did, but it couldn't give me what I needed. I got weaker, thinner, my eyes looked huge and sunken. Soon, I wasn't fast enough to catch anything.
3.
I'm huddled against a concrete wall under the freeway one night when I hear them; maybe five young guys all bombed out of their minds. On the opposite end of the wall, between me and these guys, there's an old man talking to himself and swatting at imaginary flies; your garden variety crazy.
The young guys, they’ve all got beer bottles about half empty. One of them spots the old bum, minding his own business, and he stops the others and they all get quiet. One of them, a stocky guy in a backwards hat, walks up to the bum and squats down to face him.
“Hey," he slurs, breathing beer in the crazy’s face.
The old man huddles up tighter, turns his face away, but otherwise this punk gets nothing.
“Hey," he says a little louder.
The man’s still talking to himself and knocking his flies around, and this dumb shit, he straightens himself out, standing over the poor schizo, and yells, "Hey!"
He hooks a sneaker into the guy’s ribs.
“I’m talking to you, you crazy fuck!"
