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Mr. Push-Up was an unhinged man. Mr. Push-Up lived over a
heating grate down Colborne at Victoia Street. Mr. Push-Up
was a solitary character by nature who’s only ally was a set
of walking-bones named Jones that set the pace and kept count
while Mr. Push-Up lived up to his namesake. At best, Mr.
Push-Up slept only a handful of hours at a time, opting to
spend his waking hours building his body. Push-ups hoisted
on walls, push-ups on cars, push-ups on curbs and porches and
mail boxes; three-quarters of his body mass was above the waist
and a third of that could be found in either arm. The shock
value of his physical musculature alone was enough to protect
him from any fear of his fellow homeless making a move against
his place or property.

When the need for some good Christmas PR arrised, Mr. Push-Up
was the first in a long line of shameless ideas that began to
pour. A photograph of Mr. Push-Up, lying in a puddle of his
own piss, pointing; "they’ve moved down the street. Everyone
knows that."

After hunting high and low for the illusive and intensely
photogenic vagrant, they opted for a corny good luck in the
new year cop out. Where to find a wishbone at nine o’clock
on a Friday afternoon? Brad raided petty cash and made his
way through the ice and slush of Front Street to St. Lawrence
Market. And following in the tradition of "the last place you
look", after a few minutes of negotiation with the only remaining
butcher in the entire complex, he was able to bribe himself
a wishbone.


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