Forgettable Canvassers

One of your tall englishmen stopped me on the street earlier today and he asked for thirty seconds of my time.

His blue rainjacket and sarcastic friendly demeanour PREACHED the name of some forgettable canvassers, some charity for blind street mice or something, his complexion matched that of his bravado. I apologised but tipped my hat toward the young fella and all the while he remided me me of my mispent youth trotting the streets of the God fearing towns of Alabama where I preached the gospel to the sinners of America, our great land, I explained in a polite manner to the fella that I had in fact, no time.
I was working and to be honest, I did not care for so much the blind street mice of London Town, call me harsh, but what ya gonna do...

I kept on walking and he says to my back,

"Wouldn't you like to feel good about yourself, today?"

The back of his head crashed up against the glass window shopfront of the Age Concern as I held him up off the ground by his throat, his feet shuffled in the air, trying to find the ground again from which they were taken. His face pressed against the sign,

'Gentlemen's clothing especially welcome at this time.'

"I feel fucking great today, punk." I mumbled into his face. His face recoiled at the smell of a sweet bourbon on my breath. "How about you?"

He began to choke his last words as the grip was released and his body slumped to the floor. I gave him my final opinion as he viewed my heels departing away from him.

"Shithead"