Cannon Fodder HANS
Well-known member
- Location
- uk
“We'll call him has a nice smile. HANS.“ his mother said, her eyes wide and proud.
“pffft, HANS, “ his father nose became wrinkled as he grimaced, “how about has a nasty smell?”
“He was born in a ditch, of course he's going to smell a bit. Oh, look, he's waking up” whispered the mother.
HANS opened his eyes, smiled and did a little poo.
And that was my first memory. I had a very good memory as a child and could remember all sorts of things, including my own birth. I'm older now and I've become forgetful. It was only because I was remembering a memory of a memory that I had when I was young that allowed me to remember that bit above. Anyway...
I don't recall too much about growing up. I know I was born in Pygros and grew up in a medium sized ditch. Although my mother was a hobo and my father wore clothes, had a job and didn't smell, my mother insisted that we live the traditional hobo life. Our diet consisted of mostly leaves and twigs, but if we were lucky and my mother had been hunting with her sandal we sometimes had rabbit or snake. Occasionally father would sneak in some beans, cider and tool kits. I never understood why he brought tool kits home as he didn't have a car but after a few ciders I stopped caring.
By the time I was six I was a fairly standard run of the mill hobo kid. I was dirty, wore sandals and was addicted to alcohol. But because I was a half breed I was shunned by the other hobo kids. They called me a Snobo, which was a pathetic attempt at a portmanteau of the words snob and hobo. I just ignored them because I was better than them and called them lowbos, which is much funnier in my personal opinion.
As a loner hobo that was clearly quite smart for my age I began thinking about career choices. At six I couldn't legally get a job yet but had an idea. I walked around Altis, watching and listening to all the bigger people, all the while scribbling notes down on a leaf. I would the rush back to the ditch and edit and compile a small journal (on a bigger leaf) of the most salacious or interesting things I'd witnessed or eavesdropped. I then took the journal and nailed it to the biggest log in our ditch. Then I charged other hobos to come and read my leaf on a log. As hobos don't tend to carry money I usually ended up with a big pile of leaves and maybe the odd rabbit bone. But I had more leaves to write on and fashioned the rabbit bones into a pens. It was the beginnings of my career in journalism.
As the years passed I became a better reporter and leaf on log producer. I had my eyes on a job at Altis News. I was in my teens and was eager to make it big. A good job meant I could move my family to a nicer ditch with an outside toilet. The ultimate hobo dream. I managed to get a job sweeping the floors at the station. It wasn't quite the role I wanted but it was a start. My father used to laugh and say that I was starting at the bottom, but my father wasn't a full hobo and told corny, clichéd jokes so I just tutted and carried on reading whatever large intellectual (probably foreign) book I was studying and smoking my (probably foreign) cigarette.
One day while I was working I took my latest leaf I'd written and typed it up on one of the computers. As I was printing off a copy of my latest article a senior reporter came into the room. He asked me is he could look at the article so nervously I gave him the piece of paper. As he read through it his eyebrows raised. The reporter was interested. This was it, I thought, my big chance. Hopefully the reporter will recognise my brilliance and get me a promotion. The few minutes it took for him to finish reading felt like an aeon to me. The reporter looked up, he was smiling.
“Do you know what sonny?” the reporter said.
“No, w-w-what, “ I stammered in anticipation.
“I'm having this. Laters” the reporter said as he walked away.
I wanted to cry, I wanted to shout. It was my latest piece on a scandal that I'd uncovered about the mayor. I'd spent a long time on that. I'd done things I wasn't proud of (and coming from a hobo that means most unpleasant things indeed) to get that story of corruption, greed and human sacrifice and it had been snatched from my hands by a doddery old reporter. I wasn't happy but there wasn't much I could do as I really needed the job in Altis News. So I kept quiet. At the end of the day when it was home-time at the station I causally put away my mop and bucket, changed out of my overalls to my hobo clothes and strolled out the building. I then got into the news helicopter and crashed it into the reporter as he was walking to his car. Unfortunately the reporter survived so I had to finished him off with a good old fashioned hobo sandal beating.
I had to leave his job cleaning floors at Altis News, but because nobody really liked the reporter they all just turned a blind eye to his murder and exchanged gifts at my farewell party. They told me that they would love to keep me on and they would miss me but it was probably in the interests of everybody's personal safety if I just left quietly and on my way out didn't crash any helicopters or kill any more reporters.
“pffft, HANS, “ his father nose became wrinkled as he grimaced, “how about has a nasty smell?”
“He was born in a ditch, of course he's going to smell a bit. Oh, look, he's waking up” whispered the mother.
HANS opened his eyes, smiled and did a little poo.
And that was my first memory. I had a very good memory as a child and could remember all sorts of things, including my own birth. I'm older now and I've become forgetful. It was only because I was remembering a memory of a memory that I had when I was young that allowed me to remember that bit above. Anyway...
I don't recall too much about growing up. I know I was born in Pygros and grew up in a medium sized ditch. Although my mother was a hobo and my father wore clothes, had a job and didn't smell, my mother insisted that we live the traditional hobo life. Our diet consisted of mostly leaves and twigs, but if we were lucky and my mother had been hunting with her sandal we sometimes had rabbit or snake. Occasionally father would sneak in some beans, cider and tool kits. I never understood why he brought tool kits home as he didn't have a car but after a few ciders I stopped caring.
By the time I was six I was a fairly standard run of the mill hobo kid. I was dirty, wore sandals and was addicted to alcohol. But because I was a half breed I was shunned by the other hobo kids. They called me a Snobo, which was a pathetic attempt at a portmanteau of the words snob and hobo. I just ignored them because I was better than them and called them lowbos, which is much funnier in my personal opinion.
As a loner hobo that was clearly quite smart for my age I began thinking about career choices. At six I couldn't legally get a job yet but had an idea. I walked around Altis, watching and listening to all the bigger people, all the while scribbling notes down on a leaf. I would the rush back to the ditch and edit and compile a small journal (on a bigger leaf) of the most salacious or interesting things I'd witnessed or eavesdropped. I then took the journal and nailed it to the biggest log in our ditch. Then I charged other hobos to come and read my leaf on a log. As hobos don't tend to carry money I usually ended up with a big pile of leaves and maybe the odd rabbit bone. But I had more leaves to write on and fashioned the rabbit bones into a pens. It was the beginnings of my career in journalism.
As the years passed I became a better reporter and leaf on log producer. I had my eyes on a job at Altis News. I was in my teens and was eager to make it big. A good job meant I could move my family to a nicer ditch with an outside toilet. The ultimate hobo dream. I managed to get a job sweeping the floors at the station. It wasn't quite the role I wanted but it was a start. My father used to laugh and say that I was starting at the bottom, but my father wasn't a full hobo and told corny, clichéd jokes so I just tutted and carried on reading whatever large intellectual (probably foreign) book I was studying and smoking my (probably foreign) cigarette.
One day while I was working I took my latest leaf I'd written and typed it up on one of the computers. As I was printing off a copy of my latest article a senior reporter came into the room. He asked me is he could look at the article so nervously I gave him the piece of paper. As he read through it his eyebrows raised. The reporter was interested. This was it, I thought, my big chance. Hopefully the reporter will recognise my brilliance and get me a promotion. The few minutes it took for him to finish reading felt like an aeon to me. The reporter looked up, he was smiling.
“Do you know what sonny?” the reporter said.
“No, w-w-what, “ I stammered in anticipation.
“I'm having this. Laters” the reporter said as he walked away.
I wanted to cry, I wanted to shout. It was my latest piece on a scandal that I'd uncovered about the mayor. I'd spent a long time on that. I'd done things I wasn't proud of (and coming from a hobo that means most unpleasant things indeed) to get that story of corruption, greed and human sacrifice and it had been snatched from my hands by a doddery old reporter. I wasn't happy but there wasn't much I could do as I really needed the job in Altis News. So I kept quiet. At the end of the day when it was home-time at the station I causally put away my mop and bucket, changed out of my overalls to my hobo clothes and strolled out the building. I then got into the news helicopter and crashed it into the reporter as he was walking to his car. Unfortunately the reporter survived so I had to finished him off with a good old fashioned hobo sandal beating.
I had to leave his job cleaning floors at Altis News, but because nobody really liked the reporter they all just turned a blind eye to his murder and exchanged gifts at my farewell party. They told me that they would love to keep me on and they would miss me but it was probably in the interests of everybody's personal safety if I just left quietly and on my way out didn't crash any helicopters or kill any more reporters.
