“Bread, Battle, and the Burning Can”
By: Hobo Harry, Mystic of the Rails
Well now… let me tell ya somethin’.
The day started like most: cold dew on my boots, a rusted spoon in my pocket, and a possum I call Judge Clarence watchin’ my every move like I owed him child support. I was deep in my trash fire meditation, eyes rollin’ back like a busted cartwheel, when the spirits of the rails whispered: “Bread shall bring chaos.”
Didn’t know what they meant ’til I seen it—half a loaf of wonderbread sittin’ pretty on the edge of a busted shopping cart near the underpass. Glowed like it was anointed in raccoon oil. Soft in the middle, only slightly foot-stomped. A gift, I thought.
Wrong.
Outta the shadows slithered this wiry fella I know as Crackhead Jerry. He had eyes like busted headlights and moved like a chicken that’s seen the abyss. Claimed the bread was “divinely manifested” just for him. Said he saw it in a prophetic vape cloud last week. I told him I scried this very loaf in my sacred Can of Gluten last full moon.
And that’s when things got weird.
He pulled out a bent spatula. I reached for my staff—an old pool cue wrapped in twine and aluminum foil. We circled that bread like it was the last golden egg on Earth. Crows above us started squawkin’ encouragement.
Trash cans rattled. A raccoon choir hummed low.
The battle commenced.
He swung first—spatula clanged off my shoulder like a greasy wind chime. I countered with a swift tap to his knee and a scream in ancient boxcar Latin. The air split open! Sparks flew from a nearby puddle. Time slowed. Somewhere, a harmonica wailed without hands.
Then I did it. I summoned the Fire Can Oracle.
I booted over the nearest barrel, spilling flame and smoke like hot spirit soup. The fire roared up in the shape of a giant pigeon. Jerry froze, eyes wide, shoutin’, “The Feathered One! He is REAL!” Then he dropped the spatula and ran straight into a bush, mutterin’ about bread gods and low sodium diets.
I took the loaf.
It was stale. Full of ants. But still… it was mine.
Afterward, I returned to my meditation spot. Judge Clarence the possum gave me a slow nod of respect. I placed the bread beside the Can of Taurus and let its yeasty essence soak into the stars.
Today’s prophecy?
“Beware what you fight for. Sometimes the bread ain’t worth the bruises—but the story always is.”
Stay wild out there.
— Hobo Harry, Oracle of the Overpass, Defender of the Moldy Loaf
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