Chris walked groggilly down the street. He swayed unevenly from a mixture of alcohol and his dying right leg. He stopped and threw up on the torn up pavement. Leaving a bad taste in his mouth, he washed it back with another swig of his home brewed vodka. It was half empty and he was bored so he ripped up a rag with his teeth an stuffed one end into the bottle. Producing a makeshift match, he lit the rag and tossed the new explosive through the window of a nearby home. Screams filled the air as the family inside burned alive. He pulled an old, singed map from a pocket on his coat and looked it over. He was meant to be finding a place to stay for tonight but decided instead that he would find a nice stack of boxes to sleep on. It was probably safer than sleeping in a public place, with a reputation like his.