"Mother-Fucker! Stop!" Samson shouted, his bare feet slapped on the warm concrete and lugging his remaining items in tow. He chased Blake running past a group of construction workers who made no fuss about their cat and mouse act and laughed at them. 

Samson ignored their jeering and continued to give chase. 

And yelled, "Thief! Liar!" Asshole. He probably came back to steal from me but didn't have the balls to do it while I was awake. 

Samson hurled his remaining shoe at the Thief's back, and it gave a satisfying thud making him stumble, but he quickly recovered his balance.

 Blake made a swift detour out of the parking lot towards a backwoods area, fenced off by a high chain-link fence and covered by thorny bushes at the base.

There's no way he can get away now. 

Samson yelled at his back, "I am going to kick your scrawny-"

Blake halted only to toss the plastic bag over the fence and crawled through the mass of thorny bushes at the base of the wall meeting little resistance. 

"Ass," Samson cursed as he slowed his dash to a meandering jog. Gnarly thorns engulfed the thick underbrush of dry leaves that led into the woods on the other side of the fence. "Are you serious," he shouted but was met with silence. Crouching down near the opening, it was full of thorns and ivy. Samson sighed, 

As he walked away, turning around to pick up his lonely sneaker. He tugged his shoe on, disregarding his bare pink feet.  

"Whatever, I have money, and I-"

A thought occurred to him: he had money but probably stolen by Blake. If Blake took his shoes, he likely took his money too. He walked over and picked up his bag that he had dropped in a hurry. Found his phone and dialed.

"Hello 911, what is your emergency," a woman drawled out in a monotone and tired voice.

"Hi, my name is uhm- Sam, and I just got robbed."

"I'm sorry to hear that, ma'am. Who robbed you?"

"Uhm, I'm a guy, and it was a homeless man."

"Sorry about that, sir. Were they Black or Hispanic?"

Sam blinked and stared at his phone screen before answering, "what?"

"Was the assailant Black or Hispanic?"

"Neither. The guy was white with dirty blonde hair."

"Noted. What is your address, ma'am?"

"Stop calling me ma'am. I'm a man," he said exasperated. 

"Oh, sorry about that. Can you give me your address, sir?"

Samson sucked in his breath, exhaled, and said, "I-I'm not at home. It happened at the fair in the parking lot in front of the abandoned mall building. He got away and went into the old cedar woods."

"Understood. Was there any lethal force in taking your items or using a deadly weapon," said the operator.

"No- I mean, he took my stuff while I was sleeping on a bench," Samson kneeled and rubbed the bottom of his right foot, still sore from the chase. "I ran after him when I realized he had taken my shoes, I managed to get one of them back, but I think he also took my money."

"You think, or you know?" the operator said.

"I mean, I'm sure he did. I had a certain amount before I went to bed and woke up with less than I had," He fumbled with the phone and retched his bag off his back.

"And you said you were sleeping on a bench while he was robbing you?"

"Yes," he said.

"Sir, there isn't much we can do other than take a report," the operator said.  

His stomach sank. He opened his mouth, but no sound came out. His throat was so tight as if he were choking on his ire. He forced his voice out, "n-no." His hands shook as he raised his voice, "I need the police right now!" 

The operator made a sound, possibly sighing.

Sam gripped the phone, taking a deep breath.

"Sir, we-"

"Don't you understand, my money got stolen. I don't have a place to stay, and I need it back."

 "I'm sorry to hear that, sir. If you are homeless, you can reach out to 211 for human resources and-"

"No-no, I was robbed, and I can prove it. He stole my shoes, and I got one of them back." 

"How did he get a hold of your stuff in the first place?" they said.

"I-I was asleep, and he took it off me."

"While you were asleep?"

"Yes, on a public bench," he said.

 "Did anyone else witness the crime?" 

He ran a shaky hand through his hair. "I don't know, but the police can investigate, can't they?" 

"Sir, did anyone else witness the crime take place?"

Samson made a petulant huff. "I already told you I was asleep when he robbed me, so I don't know," he seethed. It was like he was talking in circles at a drive-through, but no one got his order.

 "There's nothing I can do other than file a report, and if there wasn't a witness to corroborate your statement, then there's nothing else we can do." 

"What are you saying?"

"It'll be your word against his," she said with no inflection. She paused, allowing him to respond; he didn't. He was too busy holding back the urge to throw his phone across the field.

"Why isn't anyone helping me?" he whined instead.

  "Sir, call 211 and get to the nearest crisis center."

"Yeah, no, fine, thanks. Thanks for nothing," Sam tapped the screen ending the call, and shoved his phone back in his pocket. 

He walked over to the fence and kicked out in a rage at the thorny bushes with his bare foot before he remembered himself and turned mid-kick to lash out at the flimsy dry grass instead. Straining his leg joints and flicking back the grass like a comb-over. 

He made another savage swing and gave up on the attempt instead of stomping out the grass. Catching his breath, Samson sank to his knees, clawing out grass from the roots. He screamed. "Fuck this town, fuck this town, fuck that bitch, fuck Blake, fuck me. Fuck everyone!" his voice echoed out. 

His breathing haggard, he ran a trembling hand through his hair to brush it out of his eyes. His face was hotter than a blister and probably redder. After making a public nuisance of himself, he brushed back his hair and dragged his feet over to find the remainder of his belongings strewn on the grass. When did he throw his stuff? "Yeah, fuck the police," Samson rummaged through his bag and pulled out a thin metal pen. 

  He slid the pen into his back pocket. With his anger fueling him, he marched to the spot Blake had crawled into like a rat. "I'll get my shit back myself," he said.

 How did he do it? Samson wondered as he crawled on his hands and knees through the thorny bushes that raked his scalp like claws. Even wearing his thick hoodie, he could not evade the sharp stabs on his knees and back. Maybe with an adrenaline rush, the pain seemed minuscule to Blake, but for Samson, the trudging was hard to do. Even with his blanket serving as a buffer, he gave up the fabric got caught in the thorns that prodded him at all sides.

 He tugged the hoodie over his face. Using some loose sticks, he prodded the undergrowth and pushed the thorny shrubs aside. His scalp felt warm with sweat or possibly blood. He didn't care either way. He just wanted out. Crawling out of the end tunnel, he propped himself up on his elbows and thrashed away the remaining vines in his way. He kicked his legs out, lifting the dried thorny vines wrapped around his ankles, stumbling as he stood. "Shit," he cursed out, catching himself before he fell face-first on the ground. "Fuck!" his voice echoed as he yanked at a vine of thorns, stabbing at the nape of his neck. "Aw, fuck, fuck," he said, gritting his teeth as he touched the tender, warm welts. His collar was damp, and Samson stared at his sweaty hands smeared with blood. 

At this point, one would consider cutting their losses and turning back, but Samson only wiped his hands on his jeans and kept walking.