The hobo snorts the sort of laugh you’d expect from a hobo, one that seems to dislodge things in his sinuses. He spits and it hits your shoe. Awesome.
“You goddamn pushers, always using your own stuff and getting your brains all crazy. You junkie. Hop head! Bet you’re on the goofballs right now, aren’t you? You sold me this shirt fair and square and you ain’t getting none of it back. Deal’s a deal, but you should pay me for what ya done to me!”
You raise an eyebrow, perplexed, and ask to know what the hobo thinks you did to him, Later you’ll tackle the question of being a drug dealer, something you don’t remember taking up as a hobby recently.
“As if you can’t tell. Look! Your little blue breath mints gave me this!” He gestures flamboyantly to his hobo wang. Suddenly you have a flash of memory. You have a pocketful of Viagra last night from…somewhere. Why did you have a pocketful of Viagra?
Thank the hobo for his time and head back down the alley, maybe there’s a clue.
Hoborections be damned, you still need a shirt that doesn’t smell like Kung Pow and poo.