It was amazing what simple actions could evoke emotion.

Like sitting. Just sitting. On the ground. Along a major pedestrian thoroughfare. Like the Downtown Commons. With and sign and a hat on the ground next to you.

While the manure and chaff of Donovan’s mien didn’t bleed through the Mask, that didn’t mean his clothes were pristine either. And that fact that he didn’t have on shoes. Plus the fact that he was actually homeless. All of which actually helped him. As he sat. Growing richer on glamour than on coin.

A steady stream of emotion washed over him like the crowd walking by. Sickly sweet Pity. Curry flavored curiosity. Gag inducing brown superiority. Putrid disgust. And yes, chili hot anger.

“Get a job.” A skinny woman in an orange dress had stopped to berate the young Wizened.

He gave her a sardonic half smile.

“Fuck you,” he said simply.

The lady’s face contorted menacingly. Surprisingly she didn’t react entirely as expected. She only turned her nose up and strode off with purpose. Yet Donovan’s fertilizer had allowed her hatred to grow in leaps and bounds. He could taste it as he drank in her glamour. Like chili but this time with meat and potatoes. He savored the essence of hatred until she turned the corner. Then he stood up, grabbed the hat and left the cardboard sign behind.

He had little doubt the mall cops would soon descend on order from the woman’s wrath. As spicy as her glamour was, it wasn't worth an encounter with the law.