It's wicked to mock the afflicted

never talk to (well dressed) strangers

He listened to the soothing tones of the man’s voice. The untucked tails of a foreign accent occasionally peaked out from underneath his perfectly arranged and intonated speech.
He was lulled into a meditative peace despite the menace with which the man’s words were now imbued. Unblinking, He starred at the man’s shoulder. He could see the kinks of stray fibres upon his wool coat. He looked at the thin stubble sprouting from the jaw and neck. The tiny speck of a flea crawled along the line of the jaw. Occasionally, it would disappear from sight with a hop reappearing a moment or two later back upon the jaw. Then. Nothing. A gold and electric green flash. Then black. He could feel his body being roughly shifted and searched. A dull kick which would certainly hurt more when he returned to consciousness by the pokes and prods of two policeman taking him for a drunk.