Fagan was one persuasive bastard.
He’d seen Fagan tottering down the street a mile away, and thought, that poor bugger. Imagine, having to work as a cellular tower, just to make ends meet.
But Fagan stopped in front of the barefoot nanus, and said, “hello sir, would you like to make enough monkey squeeze to malfrapt your pedicles in glorious leather?”
Taken aback, he nonetheless understood the human telecommunications relay. “How much?”
“It’s a piecework job. Think volume. You know, I own several pairs of shoes.” Fagan jigged the shoe-jig of joy.
Soon, his oversized head was bathed in microwaves for 12 hours a day, and he forgot all about his need for quality footwear.
Jessica McDonald had been on the run for most of her adult life, ever since she’d walked into the Burker Ging and asked for a “Sloppy Whopper.” The Golden Arch Gestapo just didn’t put up with that kind of betrayal. She’d fallen in with a rough crowd of C.H.U.D.s for a while, but she kept asking for fries with her homeless people, and they threw her out of the sewers.
At first he fought he was nicked, didn’he? 
Delores always liked to take a few moments between shows and get a little alone time. Of late the circus had been touring in the Southwest and they’d seen lots of desert. Delores liked the desert. It reminded her of home, where she got her show-name from, Sahara Sally, which to tell you the truth she preferred to her given name, which rhymed with a female body part, and which the other kids at Sahara Hills High had teased her about relentlessly.