I am the victim of a hoax - a gullible buffoon, taken in and played by a master of chicanery. A couple of weeks ago, I was accosted in the street by a young man whose face was a bloody mess. Somebody had obviously beaten the crap out of him. His eyes were swollen and the bridge of his nose was flattened and oozing an alarming amount of blood. Although drunk, baseball cap wearing, and almost certainly a pain in the arse, he commanded a degree of sympathy because of the gravity of his injuries - and I'm a sucker for people crying.
Needless to say he required money, but this was apparently to get home. Street instinct made me certain that he was a horrible little shit who'd visited this misfortune upon himself - a nuisance who had fallen foul of even nastier people whose shit-patch he'd trespassed onto - but even so he was quite badly hurt, apparently vulnerable, and just possibly, if he got home in one piece, capable of mending his ways.
Some humanity was called for, along with some cash. Unfortunately I was returning from the ... oh all right then... off-licence, and had little left to give. I did offer to drive him to hospital or to call the police and wait with him until they arrived. Pathetic as he was, he rejected my Good Samaritan offers and staggered off in search of richer pickings.
And then a week ago, I found the same whining voice beseeching me for financial assistance - he'd apparently been in the wars once more. Actually, he'd yanked off the money-scab so he could leak some more horrorshow cash-inducing krovvy - I've come over all Clockwork Orange I'm afraid.
I should have given this stinking pretend-leper a good tolchock in the yarbles for his troubles, but humanity - and the ever-present fear of a good stabbing - stood in the way. He was at it again last night, horrifying passers-by with his stunt and making fools of us all. I don't know how much he's making from mutilating his face on a regular basis, or what reality-negating, bum-smuggled panacea he's frittering his blood money on - although I could make an educated guess.
Perhaps he's making a fortune, like The Man With the Twisted Lip, and on retirement will hire plastic surgeons to remodel his features at a Swiss clinic before entering the world of legitimate commerce.
But as November's 24/7 blitz bursts above the city's rooftops and brownfield sites - once referred to as back gardens - I can't help thinking, if crack could speak ...
