When I was a boy, my father took me to the market on Treacle Street, the one that burned last year. I was seven and stupid. I saw a man in the gutter with one arm. My father gave him tuppence, and tried to rush me past, but I stopped and stared, and ventured shyly, "Good morning, Sir."
The poor beggar lifted his weary eyes to mine, pulled me with surprising strengh just inches from his dirty face, cleared his throat and shouted, "Millenium Hand and Shrimp!" with all his filthy might. He relenquished his grasp and I fell back, scared and offended. I began to cry.
Seeing that his sudden outburst had upset me, the man reached into his pocket and pulled out a tiny wooden animal. It was a turtle, carved from dark wood with marvelous skill. My eyes grew wide with amazement as he offered the turtle to me. I took it, and gave a sweet giggle of pure pleasure, the kind that is possible only from a small and innocent child.
My father, coming to his senses, dragged me along to the butchery. I struggled to turn and wave goodbye to the man still lying in the gutter. I lost the turtle that I valued so much. This is a common thing among children. And I never saw the strange man again. I think, perhaps, he died some night when the wind was cold and the polluted river frozen solid. Yes, I imagine so.
Later on, when I myself took to the streets to escape my debts and my stained conscience, I learned that I was not the only one to hear of that strange man who ruled the gutters. The others knew him, and his traditional pattern of speech. Noone had seen him in years. We sat around our dwindling fire and shared our stories, but not one of us knew the reasoning behind the man's obesession with "Millenium hand and shrimp".
I have been one of us, a beggar of the truest sort, for ten years now. My family is dead. Those friends which I had have long abandoned me. All the city is my home, and the river Ankh my sweet companion in despair. But still I live. And I think that now, now that I know the face of suffering, the face of utter grief and desolation, I can begin to understand. For when I sleep in the early mornings, in my small nest behind the trashbins, I hear the words whispered gently in my ear. "Millenium hand and shrimp." This is my salvation. This is my call. And when that grim and godly reaper comes to take me from this place he'll know, that this phrase is my life. And I shall go.