The Beggar

Christ! What is that—that—Thing? Only a beggar, professionally maimed, I think.

Across the narrow street it lies, the street where little children are. It is rocking its body back and forth, back and forth, ingratiatingly, in the noisome filth. Beside the body are stretched two naked stumps of flesh, on one the remnant of a foot. The wounds are not new wounds, but they are open and they fester. There are flies on them. The Thing is whining, shrilly, hideously.

Professionally maimed, I think. Christ!