porkyandthemob

David stumbled through the square and into the street.  He reeked of booze, and had small, recent punctures along his arms.  The street was crowded, full of Saturday morning shoppers.  The cobblestones under their feet were smooth and rounded.  David tripped on a permanent rut, worn deep into the stones.  They vaunted their hundreds of years of use to him.  David cursed aloud.  A small pool of blood formed under his knee.  Getting up he looked up at the cathedral before him.  He cursed again.  His sweatshirt was tattered and stained. The holes in his trousers presented his thin legs to the world.  The flowing blood mixed with the dirt on his legs.  His wild, curly, orange hair had not been washed for some time and his hands were brownish-green from rolling marijuana cigarettes.  Someone tried to ask if he was OK reaching their hand out, touching his shoulder.  “Don’t touch me!” he shrieked.