Gerald the Hobo

In a blur a set of hands that didn't belong to the home owner snatched the package and went into a alleyway a whiles away as to be absolutely certain the homeowner couldn't catch them or go after them if they had a camera system assuming they might've been able to make out his big gray beard and his deadened eyes. Gerald didn't like this lifestyle, he never asked for this life, but of course after all he suffered overseas the government's way to repay him? Nothing, less then nothing, and now he was on the street, another veteran fucked over by the very government he followed without question just as he was supposed to. Even when he got dangerously close to questioning what he was doing he didn't. And this was how he was repayed, given nothing, nowhere to go, his family killed by a member of the organization he was sent over seas to fight for his country, no one would take him in, no one would give him a job. Yet did he scorn the world? No, he knew other people were in his position, at least he had all of his limbs, it could always be worse, he felt awful stealing from people, but the soup kitchen nearby was closed a while ago after seemingly having been sabotaged. And everyone assumed that he was just some rando faking being homeless for money, just his luck.

He grumbled audibly, his stomach growling, he prayed whatever he found inside would be the groceries they ordered, or something else useful. Being a hobo doing what he could to survive didn't net him to much benefit and was a difficult life at forty years of age.