55.

My drunk GPS pities me and speaks in 0's and 1's to my other robot parts. They think just because I don't speak binary that it means I can't understand them. 0101010110, motherfucker. I'm almost off shit row when I notice one particularly decorative shit mansion. Lion statues guard the palace steps. How fucking regal. There's a hammock hanging between big trees in the front yard. Hammocks are pretty sweet, I need a bed, and I hate these assholes. Destiny shines brightly towards my thievish nature. I stroll quickly, well as quickly as a drunk asshole can move at least, across the wild grass. The morning has brought new spilled dew upon the blades, nature's wet dream. I feel the moisture creep into my shoddy shoes as I pull out these tent stakes pinning the hammock to the tree. Thick long stakes, real biblical torture shit.

Insert Stigmata allegory.

I free the fine thing from it's oppressive masters and roll it up like one might roll a sleeping bag. I nurture the abandoned thing, carefully not letting any of the hammock touch the damp ground. Snugly wound, I think of yo-yo's and my stomach churns. I burp again and hope not to loose any more medication. I pocket the tent stakes and scurry off into the night. Wild criminal on the run. When I can finally see my new home in sight the moonlight is all but gone now. The dangling partial orb fades slowly, like a dying light bulb.