Whistles echoed in an alley, produced by a threadbare individual carting waste and lifeless critters.
A shit-stained scarf covered most of their face. Eyes closed–head swinging.
"Billy Jean," he tapped his feet. "Is not my lover!
"She's just a girl who claimed I am oneee."
The scarf swayed to rampant head-bobbing; hips twirling like a stormy tide.
Those legs soon marched on pavement, to streets that avoided the person like the bubonic plague.
"But." There was a pause. "The kid is not my son…."
Within five meters, not even flies sauntered around this individual. Yet, many eyes watched in disgust and many mouths equally whispered.
"Crazies popping up recently after yesterday's issues; maybe the Durmans were good for us after all."
"Shut it; those fuckers deserve death. My niece has been missing, and I am sure they did it."
"Huh? A hoe disappeared–where else do you think they 'missed' those spread legs too?"
