Hunched over by the condiment bar at the restaurant, Ketchupman, with dirty hands, gathers his sandwich in its wrapper with the salty, orange goo from the bucket on his fingers. He palms the wrapper tight around the sweating, sesame buns and puts the burger in the linty side pocket of his navy blue windcoat. He strides out the door while sucking muck off his thumb and not noticing the mustard on the back of his pants. He adjusts his coiled hair with a greasy digit and walks out of sight into the dark. This man lives for his food.