He was a misshapen thing, bulking a black blotch in the night at the entrance of the dark alleyway--like some lurking creature in its lair. He neither stood, nor kneeled, nor sat--no single word would describe his posture--he combined all three in a sort of repulsive, formless heap. The Flopper moved. He came out from the alleyway onto the pavement, into the lurid lights of the Bowery, flopping along knee to toe on one leg, dragging the other leg behind him--and the leg he dragged was limp and wobbled from the knee. One hand sought the pavement to balance himself and aid in locomotion; the other arm, the right, was twisted out from his body in the shape of an inverted V, the palm of his han…
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