Simeon the Wretch slid back the lid and crawled forth from his hole. His feet had become webbed and pale from long immersion in urine, feces, and the street water that leaked down into his lair after a rain. This brought with it the sour vomit of surface hooliganery along with the spent ends of cigars and soggy breadloaves. He ate the former and made genital poultices with the latter.
He sniffed the air and loped off toward the butchers' alley. There would be spoiled fat and organ gristle in the wooden bins lining that slick patch of road. Sometimes he crawled under the grease, a piece of living confit worrying the boards of the container. But that day the shops were closed; the plague had finally come to the city. The butchers were no doubt bloating on the floor next to their unsold merchandise.
He pried open a poorly repaired door and went inside to feast.