All we wanted, after all, was green grass and sturdy walls around the place where we reside between our trips to and from work. I cannot stress enough how far down the end of my rope I hang. My neck is a rotted, exposed hive of spinal discs stretched outwards like the ravaged reeds of a church organ. I don't usually see it this way, but today my vision is quite clear. I try to help out as best I can to make this world a better place, I know it's more than I need to do. What reward do I get, but to be trespassed upon by unwelcome strangers who don't even care if I live or die... yet I feed and clothe them, I know it!
Even now the figure lays unwholesome, corrupted claim to the fruits of my labor. Cloaked in the proverbial darkness of a junkie or the literal darkness of a black man, though let it be known that my God sees no race but only the darkness within individuals, he casts a grim shadow where pass innocent cars. Where children play, he masturbates - or if he does not, then he surely casts sinister glances at the passing schoolkids. We discuss him with increasing frequency - what should we do? What can we do?
A great tragedy approaches and only I can stand up for what is right. I know all the others are on my side, though they will not say it. Today I have purchased a gun, and I am taking it to go and deal with this problem. If he does not move, I will act in self defense. It's very simple. I am tired of being preyed upon. I am tired of being mocked. I am not a hero, but I feel a sense of purpose as I walk to the park, and to the hidden space behind the trees where trash is littered in such an ugly mess. I shout something. It doesn't matter what I've shouted. No one important will hear it.
Indeed, no one hears it at all. When I brush away the tacky shower curtain facade of this houseless "home," there I see it. It is not a person, at least not one I recognize. It is not alive. Still on the ground it lies, half covered in a sheet. Its head is like that of an emaciated greyhound. Its skin is inky black with splotches of ashlike gray. The skin around its eyes is tight and pulled back in a desperate stare, and its mouth is locked open in a toothless grimace. Its body is otherwise humanoid in appearance, though the proportions are unusually lanky and long - though each hand possesses five digits, these fingers stretch almost the length of its forearms and appear knotted like vines. I pity it. I hate it. I shoot it just to be sure it's dead. I shoot it again. I didn't get enough bullets. I beat it with the stakes it used to prop up its shabby shelter. I resent that it had shelter to begin with.
When I am done with the creature, it is an unrecognizable pile of black crumbs.
I return home. My wife is there. This will be a lovely winter with no vagrants to ruin it. I barely think about them at all. The mayor is coming by later to visit Jason - it's our son's 6th birthday. He's been friends with the mayor for 3 years. Jason won't grow up to be some loser who dies behind an urban park.