He's got lankish brown hair; lots of guys here have long hair, if only because they don't care enough about looks to cut it. He's dark-eyed, shabbily dressed, painfully bohemian. He's clutching a battered copy of that magazine, Chaste, to his chest, as if braced to be hit for it.

"You read that shit?" (The Corinthian slurs a little, the hard burr of an accent, but other mouths pick up the slack.)

"Just picked it up, it was here. This stuff is crazy." And if the Corinthian slurs, this man mumbles. Mother issues, that slump-shouldered bad posture reads; can't get a girl, can't bother with ending it all. The seat next to him is vacant, and the battered maroon cushions sink slightly under its new occupant.

He leans in, adjusting his sunglasses, to inspect the blank badge pinned into his lapel.
"Well, that's a new one. Haven't been in the papers, hm?"

There's no shake of the head, but a dull look that is very revealing.
"Actually, I picked it out of a trash can. Do you guys get in the paper? Cereal collectors, I mean."

"Yeah, yeah, that's it. Prolific collectors. I just had a feature done for a newspaper up in the Carolinas..." (body of missing Boy Scout found, headlines like that get the good word out there.) The TV is on, blaring its low-level noise, and his temporary compatriot pulls a foot down off the table and throws his cheap magazine aside. Maybe his car's broken down; maybe he's gotten an unexpected layover. Either way, he sticks out like a sore thumb. This is dishonest, is what it is. Letting some poor lost mundane soul wander among their ranks, unawares. Someone'll teach him. Might as well be the best.