Joseph wasn't entirely sure how he'd ended up in Swan Song. It seemed like a nice place, but it probably wasn't the best place to be when, if he were to be a masochist and open his wallet again, he'd greeted by lint, an old, torn bus ticket, and maybe a quarter, if fate would even let him have that much...

In the end, he just sat down at a table by himself, slumping over it with a groan. It was getting to the point where his stomach was beginning to legitimately hurt, and it grumbled in protest of the notion that he would, once again, not be eating that day.

Just for context, by the way, this was day five of following this particular routine.

Glancing around the place, he noticed a few people who ended up standing out from the faceless masses his hunger-dulled mind had reduced most people to. People like that one white haired girl, whose skin somehow seemed to be just as white, and that... Japanese, maybe? Oh well, that possibly japanese girl who seemed to tower above the height of most Americans! Of course, they all might just have been his collapsing mental state exaggerating features that, in reality, were only slightly different to a normal person.

Still, the music that Max guy was singing was pretty nice...

When he stopped singing, however, and a man he could only assume was the owner of the place began to speak quite angrily about a few rich people or something like that, it was decidedly less nice.

However, as soon as the people he'd apparently been talking about got onto the stage, he decided that it was probably all warranted.

Just looking at the clothes they wore, particularly the white-haired one, made him look like a waterlogged rat in comparison. Then again, he was wearing the same torn up coat and cargo pants he'd worn for the last week, so even normal people made him look pretty bad though. Still, what they were wearing was just over-extravagant in... Well, almost every way he could think of, honestly.

The fact that one of them looked like Fidel Castro if he'd eaten the rest of Cuba's population didn't help matters much either.

Still though, all of their visible problems paled in comparison to when they opened their mouths. It actually made him want to throw up, and if not for the fact that their was nothing to throw up to begin with, he very well might have.

Just like before though, while Cuba the Hutt was bad, the one with the white hair was even worse. At least Fidel had the decency to talk like the trashy idiot he was. White-hair though, he had the [i]nerve[/i] to try and talk as if he were an intellectual! He had the goddamn audacity to defile the English language like that and try to use big boy words to make him self feel superior to everyone else! As a writer, using words like that made him sick!

And if not for the fact that he was terrified even of simple social interactions, let alone the confrontation voicing his opinions would start, he may very well have said it to their faces.

Unfortunately, it was only thanks to the expressions of some of the patrons sitting on nearby tables that he realised he essentially had.

Because apparently, he had practically been shouting everything since the 'Fidel Castro eating all the Cubans' joke, and almost definitely loud enough for the people in question to have heard [i]every. god. damned. WORD.[/i]

Looking around the venue, his eyes widened slightly.

"Ah." He said simply, not entirely sure if there was anything else he [i]could[/i] say.

And then he looked around again, before standing up, making his way to the exit, and doubling over in pain as his stomach practically [i]screamed[/i] at him to feed it.