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ManaA job’s a job, even if it required him to sit down by one of the recently cleaned walls of Hargeon’s streets and just.. wait. Yeah, wait. The hobo musclehead was doing nothing but just sitting still, constantly forcing himself to stay awake, for just a few jewels. Yeah, it was quite boring, but honest work. Apparently, a bunch of kids had been tagging the whole area with their sloppy drawings and a few cops were getting pretty angry about it, so the job to deal with it showed up. Pretty simple, surprisingly reasonable, all he had to do was find them, set them straight and bring back the cans as proof. He just wasn’t allowed to hurt the kids, which.. yeah, sure. He wasn’t completely against hurting a few kids for being little shitters, but he understood not wanting to punch them.
But god damn, couldn’t they show up faster? Right here, a big, nice, clean wall that anyone could walk right up to and mark it as they please. It was the perfect bait for a few dumb kids, the perfect cheese to a rat, the chicken breast in a cage for a wild carnivore. So the fact that they were taking this long to show up was rather.. tilting for the big man. Tilting. Is that a word? Should he consider it a word? He feels like it’s a word, though he has no idea where it originates from. Do words really have an origin? If the origin is forgotten, did it ever exist?
Yeah. It did. Idiot.
By the time he noticed, with his mind wandering as it pleased to random topics like the origin of slang, he began hearing mutterings from clearly young, boyish voices. They got closer very quickly and, soon enough, they stopped by the wall he was guarding (not napping against). They decided on that wall, one of them complaining that those lame adults had cleaned it up again. In a half asleep state, the big man had to come up with SOMETHING to stop the kids and set them straight before they actually got the wall dirty again. So, of course, he got up and said the first thing that popped into his mind.
“FUCK YOU KIDS DOING IN MY TURF!?” The hobo jumped up to his own two feet, moving quickly over to the children he towered over. That bellow and angry look on his anomalous face was enough to have them already frozen in shock, like they weren’t really believing what was happening. Bucket tried to take advantage of that shock and reached down to one of them, lifting them up by the collar with a good bit of care not to hurt them. Still, he looked the kid in the eyes with the black voids that were his own. “You’ve been marking over my spots EVERYWHERE, haven’t you!? You think you’re fuckin’ smart!? A little group of you gathers and suddenly you think you’re hot shit!? I’ll smack you fuckers dead if you keep going! Now gimme that!” He put the kid down as to not hurt him, instead swiping the paint cans from them, glaring at the kids whose color had just about drained from their face.
“Now GIT! GIT OUT! Don’t be tagging shit again or next time I won’t be so nice!” He barked out, letting the kids run away on their own. Honestly, he did not like to yell at kids. They’re just kids.. but sometimes, ya gotta get scared straight. So, the next day, he reported his success with the cans, got his reward and went on his way to eat his breakfast. He’s hungry.
658 Words.
But god damn, couldn’t they show up faster? Right here, a big, nice, clean wall that anyone could walk right up to and mark it as they please. It was the perfect bait for a few dumb kids, the perfect cheese to a rat, the chicken breast in a cage for a wild carnivore. So the fact that they were taking this long to show up was rather.. tilting for the big man. Tilting. Is that a word? Should he consider it a word? He feels like it’s a word, though he has no idea where it originates from. Do words really have an origin? If the origin is forgotten, did it ever exist?
Yeah. It did. Idiot.
By the time he noticed, with his mind wandering as it pleased to random topics like the origin of slang, he began hearing mutterings from clearly young, boyish voices. They got closer very quickly and, soon enough, they stopped by the wall he was guarding (not napping against). They decided on that wall, one of them complaining that those lame adults had cleaned it up again. In a half asleep state, the big man had to come up with SOMETHING to stop the kids and set them straight before they actually got the wall dirty again. So, of course, he got up and said the first thing that popped into his mind.
“FUCK YOU KIDS DOING IN MY TURF!?” The hobo jumped up to his own two feet, moving quickly over to the children he towered over. That bellow and angry look on his anomalous face was enough to have them already frozen in shock, like they weren’t really believing what was happening. Bucket tried to take advantage of that shock and reached down to one of them, lifting them up by the collar with a good bit of care not to hurt them. Still, he looked the kid in the eyes with the black voids that were his own. “You’ve been marking over my spots EVERYWHERE, haven’t you!? You think you’re fuckin’ smart!? A little group of you gathers and suddenly you think you’re hot shit!? I’ll smack you fuckers dead if you keep going! Now gimme that!” He put the kid down as to not hurt him, instead swiping the paint cans from them, glaring at the kids whose color had just about drained from their face.
“Now GIT! GIT OUT! Don’t be tagging shit again or next time I won’t be so nice!” He barked out, letting the kids run away on their own. Honestly, he did not like to yell at kids. They’re just kids.. but sometimes, ya gotta get scared straight. So, the next day, he reported his success with the cans, got his reward and went on his way to eat his breakfast. He’s hungry.
658 Words.
