“Well, Buster, it’s been quite a week, ain’t it?” Melvin spat around the rotten anchovy lodged under his tongue. He had traversed the land for a solid eight minutes in search of vittles. When all the trashcans and dumpsters turned up fruitless, he resorted to his hobo handbook and quickly read Chapter Eleventeen: Rannygazoo and How It Can Help YOU.
Melvin jotted down some notes and limped to a nearby trailer park, where he tried his hand at tick-tacking in hopes of luring people far enough out of their doublewides to allow him a chance at slipping inside to raid their ice boxes. Maybe find some leftover Spam or tuna casserole.
“I could really go for a fat slab of day old Spam on a wheat cracker,” Melvin thought deliriously to himself. But everyone came to their door with a shotgun hitched across their shoulder on account of the rampant infestation of colored folk who arrived from a scary state called Arkansas.
To get back to his camp, Melvin had to pass a sewage plant. The thought of sucking on bloated turds crossed his mind, but he had food allergies and didn’t want to press his luck, since no doctor in town accepted his snotted hankies as insurance.
Over the crackling fire, Melvin relayed the day’s food quest to his faithful companion, Buster.
“But now we gots some wieners, don’t we Buster?” He gave them a twirl over the fire, letting the flames lick them into a sizzle.
Buster whined a little, then passed out, on account of all the blood he lost from his groin trauma.
Melvin never did say where he got the other wiener, but other hobos in the camp noticed that his urinating was done in private after that night, and generally accompanied with blood-curling howls.
(Picture provided by fabulous sponsor Alyson!)