Scrawled from the shadows, by the light of a stolen flashlight and destiny’s own hand.
They locked me up again. Caught me mid-scry, mid-prophecy, right as I was getting a read on Scorpio’s romantic entanglements (spoiler: steamy and dangerous—just like their chili). Some newfangled deputy with no respect for sacred bean ritual mistook my circle of cans for a “hobo séance.” Said I was “disturbing the peace.” I most certainly was not licking a window shirtless and high on dmt.
HA. Peace ain’t never been disturbed till a mystic’s denied his cans.
But I didn’t panic, no sir. I meditated by the flicker of the vending machine light, tuned my spirit to the trash fire frequency, and let my inner raccoon whisper me the escape route. They call it Trash Fire Ascendance. Hard to master, but ol’ Harry’s been studyin’ the soot-scrolls for decades.
I phased outta that cell at midnight sharp. Left only a tin spoon and the smell of burnt pork rinds behind.
Now, the real mission: retrieve the sacred Twelve from the evidence locker. These cans ain’t just any tins—they’re attuned to each sign of the Zodiac, soaked in moonshine under a blood eclipse, and blessed by a three-legged possum named Carl.
Crawlin’ through ductwork like some greasy sage of espionage, I dodged motion sensors using Whisperin’ Wind Technique, a method taught to me by a retired ninja I met in Topeka. Slid past guard dogs by projecting the illusion of a sandwich into their minds. When I finally made it to the locker, my hands trembled. Twelve cans, still hummin’ with starlight. I kissed each one like a long-lost child.
By dawn, I was back on the edge of town, fire cracklin’ in a rusty drum, beans bubblin’. My old pal Rascal the raccoon emerged from the shadows like a furry specter. We shared the can, no words needed.
I looked into the Leo can. It glowed bright. “You will reclaim what was stolen,” it said.
Well, it was right. Again.
Stars bless y’all,
–Hobo Harry
Sage of the Rails, Whisperer of Cans, Fugitive of Fate