A tall, thin man with a crippled leg hobbled through the alley, struggling to move deeper into the shadows.
He reeked of stench, and what covered his body, supposed to be clothes, was actually filthy scraps of cloth wrapped around newspaper, while beneath the layer of 'oilcloth,' on his chest skin, a cluster of white particles squirmed on the festering flesh.
They used their mouthparts to secrete digestive fluids onto surrounding flesh, breaking down the cells into a nutritious protein pus, and then eagerly gulped it in, indulging in the everlasting feast.
With each step the host took, the maggots on the wounds would tremble, as though they might fall off at any moment.
Yet the man appeared oblivious to his own condition, his head down as he continued to walk forward.
All he wanted was to return to his little hideout, using the hard-earned money to find a cybernetic doctor to change his face, preferably so that no one in the world could recognize him.
