Despite the stench, bury yourself in the trash and hope that you won't be discovered

Your humiliation is outweighed by your burning desire to not to become a small pile of ashes, and you scamper and claw your way into and under the pile of refuse. Luckily, you don't really have to breathe, or this would be unbearable.

The irony of being buried in garbage in order to survive, when the corpse of your latest meal has barely gone cold in that same mound is not lost on you, and you smile ruefully. That's un-life for you.

Completely buried in decomposing restaurant waste, you are shielded from the sun's scorching rays. Unfortunately, it's the middle of summer and you will be here for a very long, very hot day. You make yourself as comfortable as possible, and settle in for what must certainly rank high on your long life's list of lows.

You are just beginning to doze when your keen ears perceive footsteps approaching the alley; surely this is to be expected, as daylight tends to be followed by the appearance of pedestrians.

But voices emerge, becoming louder as they approach.

"I'm telling you, Tim, I just think we should check the alley one more time. That kind of pervert likes to hang out in creepy places, and this is a creepy a spot as I ever saw," argues a tired-sounding male voice.

Pervert? Hardly! You think to yourself, feeling secure now that you are well-hidden, but offended nonetheless.

"What are you now, Steve?" replies the other man, Tim. "Some kinda FBI profiler? What makes you so sure he doesn't hang out in his swanky high-rise apartment with some sexy-broad wife? That guy coulda been anybody, we just know he was lookin' shady after that old bat Mrs. Finnigan heard screams," he grumbles.

"I understand the criminal mind, Tim. Someone like you could never have any understanding..." Steve trails off.

"Your brother-in-law spent one night in the drunk tank. That hardly makes you an expert," retorts Tim.

At this you barely suppress a chuckle, confident that you will remain undiscovered today.

The bickering members of the Citizens on Patrol vigilante group take their leave shortly after, having glanced once more around the alley, ineffectively shining their flashlights in broad daylight and trying to look authoritative.

You curl up, and fall into a thick, dreamless sleep.

You awake as dusk fades to night, stretch your stiff limbs, and have a good listen: there is no one in the alley. You make you way out of the pile, ensuring that last night's dinner remains well covered.

The End

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