Once again, I get myself into a situation where I have to clarify I'm not a Nazi paedophile

What? I didn't mention I live in Minas Tirith? Image by Alegrya via FlickrI went into the basement earlier, looking for that pile of uniforms Max and I got from an alternate universe. But that's a long story, you wouldn't be interested in it anyway.
 I found them behind a pile of storage boxes - flat-pack furniture, still got too much of the bloody stuff - all shiny and black and jackbooty. Very smart. Very Nazish too, but that's how you get the kids these days - with smart uniforms, not modified fascism. And by get the kids, I mean involve them in a project or something. Not in a paedophile way. Hmm, I needed to make far too many clarifications. Doesn't flow. Not good writing. Use words bad, me do.
 Anyhow, I moved the uniforms upstairs. Max had set up a semi-working soup kitchen, kidnapping local vegetables (Only the racist ones) and boiling them up. After they received their food, I shepherded the queue of tramps through the house, directing them first to the shower, and then into a nice, shiny new uniforms. I was building an army. Well, sort of. Every 20th member got a flag - a white tree on a black background.

Afterwards, I assemble them in the yard. They're given Nerf guns to train, I'll get real weapons later. Foam swords to practise with. There's something evil coming, the armies of Mordor are on the march. When the army's fully equipped, I plan to move to Osgiliath, secure the city once and for all. Then we can start to push back the forces of Sauron.
 But first, I need to take my medication. Been busy recently, under a lot of stress. Don't feel all there. Not to worry, the mist should clear when I'm free of the glare of that accursed eye...

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.