Hungry, hungry hobos

Pulling back the corner of the curtain, I peered outside, into the dawn-tinted street. The queue, stretching earlier only from my front door to the gate, now reached most of the way down my road. But it didn't end outside Mrs. Cobain's house, where it reached it's furthest from my door. No, the tramps stationed in her geraniums and near her gnomes were not the end of the line, only the middle. Bizarrely, like the titular character from snake, the queue snaked in on itself, moving in straight lines and turning at right angles, until the observer finally finds one homeless man, cap in hand, standing back to side with another, far further up the queue. Also like snake, a few of them were eating mice, but that's besides the point.

 How, I hear you ask, a mob clamoring to be heard, did I become host to the great unwashed masses?


Image via Cyanide and Happiness.
Obviously



Well, it turned out there was more of Mr. Potato to go around than I thought. When I went out to dispose of our racist food-friend, I managed to feed 17 hungry, hungry hobos. Word soon spread, and my description likewise. It wasn't long before my house was found, and this great mob descended on it looking for food, cider and small change. Tiny flea ridden dogs bathed in my duckpond. Old, wrinkled men played the accordion on my garage. A man in a smart but dirty suit, worn with age and general wear and tear, sipped cold tea from a chipped teacup on my front lawn.

For my part, I stayed inside. I hoped the problem would go away. After all, I can't boil all my friends and feed them to the homeless.

 Not even Max.

 I think.

"I'm hungry"...

"Of course you are." I replied tersely. Is that the word I'm looking for? I think I replied tersely anyhow...
 Max and I were in the big city - some sort of nameless city, big in size, located near my home somewhere - avoiding the many forces of light, darkness and beige out to get my foolish friend. Of course, in the rush to escape my besieged house, I'd forgotten my wallet. And Max claimed his was in the stomach of a fish, so that was no good either.
 "I know!" He shouted, "We mug a Big Issue salesman! Actually, we just steal his Big Issues, and the bib and identification and stuff, and sell the Big Issues ourselves, and use the money to buy fried chicken and burgers!"
 I looked at Max, hoping to detect a hint of sarcasm. There was none.
 "So. Your plan is basically to rob the homeless of what little dignity and money they have so we can buy junk food?"
 "Yea!"
 "Ok." I replied, "I'm in."
In my defense, I hadn't eaten for at least half an hour...

For days, we co-existed peacefully. Sure, we were a little distrustful of each other, but i assumed that would pass with time. Then, last Saturday afternoon, two of the wasps started to poke my house with sticks. Before i knew it, they'd gotten a hose out and totally destroyed my home. Nature's a bitch