A dark figure stood near a fire burning low in a rusty, battered oil drum, one of many burning in skid row. His fleece-lined suit kept him warm, despite the bitter cold.
“Hey mister, wanna drink?”
A ragged figure staggered up to him, swaying from drink and stinking of poor hygiene.
“No.”
The dark figure reached for a scented cloth.
“Well… want some fresh-popped popcorn?”
The dark figure looked sharply at this unfortunate human.
“You have the microfiche?”
“Nahhhhh… but your friend said to look up.”
Looking up, he spotted the sniper's laser sight.
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