The Hobo Threat

The hobos were restless. Frank Popplefratter had seen it all before. The elder of the old desert town of Mulberry, Frank was the lone survivor left from the Great Hobo Wars. As he contemplated the situation from his pine rocking chair, he could almost feel the tension building.

Frank knew he had to warn the townsfolk and do it fast. "People, my people!" Frank cried from his porch overlooking main street, "People, the hobos are fast approachin'! They'll kill us all!"

But it seemed that Frank's message had fallen upon deaf ears. None of the younger folks had lived through the terror that was the Great Hobo Wars, and Frank knew it would take all of his might to convince the people of Mulberry to prepare for the great hobo plague about to befall them. Lifting his old, tired body from his chair, Frank yelled across the street with all of his might, "People, my people! You've got to get ready! The storm that is the hobos is about to swallow Mulberry whole!"

Still, none heeded his dire warnings. As evening turned into night, Frank finally retired into his bedroom, crestfallen that he was ignored. Perhaps, he thought, the hobos were not actually coming. As he faded into a restless sleep, he was comforted by that thought.

But later that evening, as the wind played across the curtains, a bump in the night awoke Frank. It's nothing, he thought, just the wind. He closed his eyes again, but just as he did a grimy hand wrapped itself across his wrinkled neck. Toothless Tom jumped out from behind Frank's headrest, armed with his banjo and a urine-encrusted pillow. With a jab, a thrust, and a hallowing scream in the night, Frank was finished off.

"C'mon, you hobo bags o' bones," Toothless Tom whispered, "it's time to pillage this village".

With those words, Toothless Tom led his army of dirty vagabonds out and headed into the cold, black night.