You see me coming. I duck and weave, but it is useless. I must be wearing a neon sign which says ‘accost me’: you are the third so far.
You are charming. You talk of widespread suffering and how it could all be stopped if only I’d part with some paltry monthly sum. You put your hand on my arm, lean in close, and confide that you’d do the same for me, were I in need.
Poor fool. My polite self is listening, but I am not. I am wondering how much your charity squanders on your employment. I am wondering where one buys blue and green hair dye like yours, and I am wondering, based upon your penchant for facial piercing, what other parts of your anatomy are skewered with silver.
Your message is wasted. You picked the wrong one. You could never be trained to spot the likes of me.