He was a well known face in town, Old Joe. Crazy as a bat, unwashed and unshaved, just walking along the streets talking to himself. He minded his own business and didn’t mind others ignoring him. The people at the church gave him soup sometimes, the baker gave him some stale bread, he slept in the woods, and he thought life to be good.

He had found a nice new duffelbag in the park, wich made him very happy, his old plastic bags from the supermarket had gotten too many holes in it. He needed something to keep his belongings in. The picture of his mother, wich he had found on the street years ago and decided that it was a picture of his mother, his good sunday clothes, his newspapers, the pieces of stale bread he didn’t want to eat yet but wanted to save for hard times.

He had to empty the thing though, because the strange papers in it were heavy, and not nice. Not even resembling his mother.

An hour later, when Old Joe was wondering why the ducks had gone to Jupiter, a dead body was found in the river.