87. Running Wild

I’m debating on whether or not I should tell you this next bit lest you think I’ve gone mad. But alas, it my duty as a truth-speaker to share the next bit of my life story. It might be important later, as uncharacteristic things often are.

I’m having myself a wander with Burbank and Lenore as we’re waiting for our coach bus to Monte Carlo. We’ve already gone to the bus station and got our tickets and are now pacing the streets and checking our watches. There are a lot of dirty people in this part of the city. Homeless and poor and run-down buildings.

Then this one tramp grabs my arm really hard, pinching all my flabby upper-arm skin, and I nearly cried right then and there, but I didn’t because he started talking to me. His breath smelled like cabbage, which is a weird thing to think because I don’t even remember what cabbage smells like (I don’t eat my vegetables like a good boy, which is why I’m so weak).

And this tramp says “It’s you!”

And I say, “Wow, even beggars read my books.”

And he says, “No. They said you’d be here.”

And I say, “Yeah, my tour’s on my website. Do you want me to autograph your…cup?”

And he says, “They said to give you this.” He hands me this crumpled up piece of paper and then runs off. It was crazy! I’ve never seen a tramp run before!