Hobo = Homeless, travels the country in search of work.
Tramp = Homeless, travels the country to avoid work.
Bum = Homeless, just hangs around neither traveling nor working.
Homeless, penniless, sexless. A nonperson. If you'da known things were gonna be this bad, and if you knew how good things might've been if only things were just a little different for you.
Up until recently you were NEETmaxxing on your parents' farm. You wouldn't call yourself "lazy," but you did sort of "coast." You were more of a "dreamer" than a "doer." Because you had no way of knowing things would get this bad. Of course you didn't learn to read or write, you didn't think you would need to right away. And where would you even start? Where would you go to learn? It'd be nice someday, but you don't really have the guidance for that. For the time being you would focus on being a competent assistant to your dad on the farm.
Your brother didn't see it that way though. He went and learned himself some French and moved to Paris around the time the Negroes were let go. You kept in touch with him up until your parents died. You tried to keep the farm, but you didn't actually know as much as you should about farming. After blasting the land into a waste, you sent one last letter to your brother explaining that you could no longer be reached at the family farm. There's no money to be made here, and in order to survive you're going to have to hit the rails. Or at least you tried your best to tell him that. You can't really read or write.
You and the other boys here are on the march after a stint working on a nearby ranch. A diverse mixture of every ethnicity that would be having a hard time of it in 1888. You're in the thick of fall now and the harvest is just about all brought in. Most likely won't be any more ranch hand jobs for the rest of the year. Everyone's plotting their next moves, and plans for the future...
Hobo 1: I'm gonna try and head east to the big cities. Learn to read and write. Get a job as a clerk. Then an apprenticeship under a good lawyer, and then become a lawyer myself.
Hobo 2: I just need $1,000 and nobody to ask where I got it. I'll buy me a farm and live off the fat of the land.
Hobo 3: I won't survive winter out of doors. Maybe I'll let the cops pick me up.
Hobo 4: Brothers, don't you all know of the Big Rock Candy Mountains? Where men are finally free from pain and hardship? Where the rivers are whiskey and the chickens are born fried? Where the sun is chocolate chipped and the roads are apple pied? Where all the cops have wooden legs and toothpick dicks, and their wives are all buxom and spunky? You can walk right into their dining room on a Sunday morning, jerk your cock into his daughter's porridge, and she'll help you finish!
What about you? What are you gonna do next? And what do you hope to achieve in the world someday?
Aside from the clothes you wear, you also have a map of the railroads. Which you can't really read. All you know is that you're somewhere near Cheyenne.
Tramp = Homeless, travels the country to avoid work.
Bum = Homeless, just hangs around neither traveling nor working.
Homeless, penniless, sexless. A nonperson. If you'da known things were gonna be this bad, and if you knew how good things might've been if only things were just a little different for you.
Up until recently you were NEETmaxxing on your parents' farm. You wouldn't call yourself "lazy," but you did sort of "coast." You were more of a "dreamer" than a "doer." Because you had no way of knowing things would get this bad. Of course you didn't learn to read or write, you didn't think you would need to right away. And where would you even start? Where would you go to learn? It'd be nice someday, but you don't really have the guidance for that. For the time being you would focus on being a competent assistant to your dad on the farm.
Your brother didn't see it that way though. He went and learned himself some French and moved to Paris around the time the Negroes were let go. You kept in touch with him up until your parents died. You tried to keep the farm, but you didn't actually know as much as you should about farming. After blasting the land into a waste, you sent one last letter to your brother explaining that you could no longer be reached at the family farm. There's no money to be made here, and in order to survive you're going to have to hit the rails. Or at least you tried your best to tell him that. You can't really read or write.
You and the other boys here are on the march after a stint working on a nearby ranch. A diverse mixture of every ethnicity that would be having a hard time of it in 1888. You're in the thick of fall now and the harvest is just about all brought in. Most likely won't be any more ranch hand jobs for the rest of the year. Everyone's plotting their next moves, and plans for the future...
Hobo 1: I'm gonna try and head east to the big cities. Learn to read and write. Get a job as a clerk. Then an apprenticeship under a good lawyer, and then become a lawyer myself.
Hobo 2: I just need $1,000 and nobody to ask where I got it. I'll buy me a farm and live off the fat of the land.
Hobo 3: I won't survive winter out of doors. Maybe I'll let the cops pick me up.
Hobo 4: Brothers, don't you all know of the Big Rock Candy Mountains? Where men are finally free from pain and hardship? Where the rivers are whiskey and the chickens are born fried? Where the sun is chocolate chipped and the roads are apple pied? Where all the cops have wooden legs and toothpick dicks, and their wives are all buxom and spunky? You can walk right into their dining room on a Sunday morning, jerk your cock into his daughter's porridge, and she'll help you finish!
What about you? What are you gonna do next? And what do you hope to achieve in the world someday?
Aside from the clothes you wear, you also have a map of the railroads. Which you can't really read. All you know is that you're somewhere near Cheyenne.
