hobo,

The shadow raises his gloved hand and smashes the window, breaks in through the back, the club is empty, old disused, dusty, broken glass litters the floor and here and there are dark bloodlike stains, he shivers, gathers together some broken bits of furniture, tears an tatty old poster off the wall, ‘Tonight Live at the Orchid Room’ for kindling and lights a fire in the middle of the dance floor, he is shaking with cold and hunger,