Her name was Sam. 

...Well, more or less.  It had at one point been short for Samantha, but no one had to know that.  Sam herself had nearly forgotten that trivial bit of information, and probably wouldn't have answered to that name had it been shouted at full volume in her ear.  So Sam she remained, although she didn't correct anyone who called her Samuel. 

That would have defeated the purpose, after all.

Sam rather liked her trousers.  She also rather liked her fake beard.

And she rather liked being a nuisance to society and everything orderly and decent. 

In this moment, she was standing on the edge of the street, trousers, beard and all, holding a wooden sign that declared, in strong strokes of black paint, "THE END IS NEAR."  And she believed it, too--not the end of the world, of course, barring unforeseen circumstances.  No, the sign conveniently didn't say the end of what exactly.  Sam reasoned that the message was so ambiguous, it was automatically true. 

The road ended near here, for one.  And people died every day.  Their ends were near.

She had watched the man with the portly, balding gentleman enter the house, and now she watched him exit again.  Something about the excitement in the way he was now carrying himself intrigued her, and, taking care not to be seen, she crept up around the back of the cab as he approached the front.

"Where to, sir?"

"Take me to the University.  I've got some business to take care of."

As the cab began to roll away, Sam tucked her sign under her arm and jumped onto the back.  With her feet braced on the bit of the undercarriage that protruded from the back and one hand securely gripping the lip of the roof, she managed to stick to it.  Whooping with glee, she took her sign in her free hand and waved it behind the cab.

The glares she received from passersby would give her joy until the end of her days. 

Which, she hoped, was not near.

The End

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