the Story of the bum in the daytime

This story begins on an abnormally sunny weekend day in San Francisco. In an insanely strange turn of the tables, the protagonist, the hero, the nomme de french word, of this story is a bum; well, sort of. A man-child named Tom the Body and a child-man named Red Rocket sat silently sipping forty ounces of freedom that could only be procured through illicit dealings with the pakistani man who happened to own the liquor store across the street from their 18th Century dilapidated Victorian abode located in the heart of a gang battle zone in the Mission. As they slowly drank their disgusting Steel Reserves, Red Rocket and Tom the Body began to converse about what the day could possibly hold in store. After all, the clock had just barely struck 4:15. Finally, near the end of the forty, an obviously inebriated vagrant sauntered along throught the middle of the street past our two jerky boys pushing the contents of his life in front of him in a shopping cart. As he was in the middle of the street, Tom the Body, fearing for the man's life, in a neighborhood where people routinely drove past the Vicotrian house at 45 MPH with shocks bouncing, yelled to the man, "Yo, get out of the street you asshole."

The vagrant looked at Tom, disgust caking his eyes (or was it semen?), and said, "I bet this is your car."
Tom said it wasn't, but the bum saw through his ruse, and slammed his shopping cart directly into the car. Tom immediately became enraged and threathened to beat the shit out of the bum if he didn't, "get the fuck out of here right now." The bum calmly looked at Tom, with a broken beer bottle in his hand and told him, "You don't mess with me, I'll shit on your porch," and with that the man, a sage really, walked on with shopping cart in tow.

Tom and Red Rocket forgot about that altercation, and went out to get smashed; maybe even hamboned. They woke up late the next day. As with most days, bums lined the bottom of their stoop. Tom woke up first and went outside to stretch and take in the day. Suddenly, Red Rocket heard a blood curdling scream which forced him out of his hung over daze as Tom rushed up the stairs, exclaiming, "Nick, Red Rocket, you have to come outside....O my god!"

And we id go outside, and we saw what he saw. Next to a different bum's face lay one single deuce. It wasn't large or small, and it looked to be the product of a malnourished individual, but there it lay; the symbol of man's hatred self, of people with cars, victorian houses and Steel Reserve.