Your name is JOHN EGBERT. You are TWENTY-FOUR YEARS OLD, and for reasons you would RATHER NOT TALK ABOUT, you are FLAT BROKE. You have resorted to becoming a STREET PERFORMER as a means of hopefully making a little cash.
At the moment, you are standing in a busy city square, attempting to AMAZE AND MYSTIFY with your STUNNING ILLUSIONS and BAFFLING FEATS. Your cards fly from hand to hand, you make coins vanish and reappear from nowhere, pull silks and rope and razors from your mouth. Sometimes you get a polite smile or a penny or a nickel, but mostly, people walk straight past you without sparing half a glance. As of six hours standing in the heat with your deck of cards and half-dollars, you have made only...
You have made...
You look down in time to see a bone-skinny hand tossing a literal wad of bills into the upturned fedora - formerly almost empty except for a littering of coins - at your feet.
You blink and look up to thank the generous stranger, only to see oh god is he a juggalo.
He doesn't say a thing, just stares down into your eyes, seemingly utterly transfixed. He's pasty white where his face hasn't been decorated with weird black and white patterns, blue-purple veins standing out harshly on a twiggy neck and arms. His hair's a wild blond mess that easily sits at least six inches tall - and he's tall himself, a complete string bean, standing more than a foot taller than you. He notices your attention, and a slow grin spreads across his face like molasses.
"Couldn't help but all be motherfuckin' gettin' my notice on of the miracles you're making, bro," he says; his voice is soft and slightly gravelly, barely above a whisper that you have to strain to hear. "That's all I got on me right there, but I'd give you more if I could."
You still don't really know what to say, so all you manage is, "That's very kind of you." How much money did he even put in there? He can't be serious, can he?
Wait a minute, that doesn't look like legal tender to you...
New JOHN<3GAMZEE Game (FILL: TEAM JOHN<3ROSE)
At the moment, you are standing in a busy city square, attempting to AMAZE AND MYSTIFY with your STUNNING ILLUSIONS and BAFFLING FEATS. Your cards fly from hand to hand, you make coins vanish and reappear from nowhere, pull silks and rope and razors from your mouth. Sometimes you get a polite smile or a penny or a nickel, but mostly, people walk straight past you without sparing half a glance. As of six hours standing in the heat with your deck of cards and half-dollars, you have made only...
You have made...
You look down in time to see a bone-skinny hand tossing a literal wad of bills into the upturned fedora - formerly almost empty except for a littering of coins - at your feet.
You blink and look up to thank the generous stranger, only to see oh god is he a juggalo.
He doesn't say a thing, just stares down into your eyes, seemingly utterly transfixed. He's pasty white where his face hasn't been decorated with weird black and white patterns, blue-purple veins standing out harshly on a twiggy neck and arms. His hair's a wild blond mess that easily sits at least six inches tall - and he's tall himself, a complete string bean, standing more than a foot taller than you. He notices your attention, and a slow grin spreads across his face like molasses.
"Couldn't help but all be motherfuckin' gettin' my notice on of the miracles you're making, bro," he says; his voice is soft and slightly gravelly, barely above a whisper that you have to strain to hear. "That's all I got on me right there, but I'd give you more if I could."
You still don't really know what to say, so all you manage is, "That's very kind of you." How much money did he even put in there? He can't be serious, can he?
Wait a minute, that doesn't look like legal tender to you...
> John: Examine bills of dubious legitimacy.