John had never done anything like this before. He had been on the streets all his life, but never had he hurt someone else in order to fuel his Rastafarian lifestyle. As he watched the old man, gingerly step out of the understated black Mercedes, he swallowed the bile that had welled up from his stomach, and fingered the pen knife in his jacket pocket. John had been following this grumpy old man and planning this attack for the past three weeks, ever since his spiteful complaints had led to John's forced resignation at a local used book store. He no longer got to lounge around and read the classics, occasionally ringing up a customer all day, because the old man felt as though he had not been properly treated. Anger at the cruelty of the world raged in John. As the old man turned the key to his apartment door, John stepped out from the corner he had been hiding in and slowly made his way across the parking lot. In his head the battle raged. He knew the old man could solve all his problems, he was obviously wealthy, but at the same time, he wondered at once expense to his soul this ill-gotten wealth would come. His desperation fought with his conscious as John made his way up the stair case. The old man was bending down to pick up his groceries, and John could see how helpless he was. the bulge of his wallet, as well as the obvious luxury of the apartment within tempted John to the very depths of his soul. He could see himself drinking that bottle of wine in that leather recliner watching the 58 inch plasma TV, to some degree he could even justify the attack. As John made the last couple steps to the old man, he felt himself bending down. He picked up one of the bags and handed it to the old man, looking away in shyness as he did so. As he walked away he felt that something significant had just happened although he didn't understand exactly what it was.