That night my alarm clock unexpectedly started alarming. I slumbered for some minutes, but couldn’t really fall asleep again, so I decided to take a little walk and get some fresh air. I gave a dollar to a black, old hobo I randomly walked by. The hobo suddenly looked at me. I thought, that he might just wanted to thank me, but his eyes looked wrong, wide opened, wild, like he had seen some kind of a monster. He grasped my arm and pulled me down to him. I tried to twist myself free, but the man had a good hold on my arm. I could feel his warm, heavy breath in my ear as he pulled me closer to him. I was just about to scream for help, but then he said it. I looked surprised at the man with a weird accent and stopped on wrenching myself free from his hard grasp.
Joseph Kony.
The man who killed so many people in Africa. The despicable rebel from Uganda. That man.
“I-I was his right hand…” The hobos voice sounded like sandpaper, like he hadn’t have had anything to drink for ages. The hobo let lose of my arm and smiled. The smile accentuated his many wrinkles. “I used to be his brother”
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