Wearing a tattered trench coat, bermuda short, and combat boots, the man stepped from the roof to plummet to the alley twenty stories below. Despite the velocity, he made no sound behind the two youngish men skulking at the edge of the sidewalk, until he spoke, "That would be the wrong thing to do."
The boys whirled around, already on edge from contemplating their crime, it was only the comic aspect of the man that kept them from becoming completely berserk. Almost a handful of inches below six feet, moderately built, eyes hidden behind mirrored glasses, dark hair sticking from under a red and white striped stocking cap, the man in the bermuda shorts and combat boots was not one to be frightened of.
As one of the boys looked at the other and said, "e's just a bum, fergit 'em," the bum suddenly turned to the side of the alley and lifted a small piece of concrete. It's shape was such to fit perfectly in the chink at the bottom of the ledge above the man's head.
The man dusted it off, mumbling something about the gem of destiny. Turning again to the two boys, he held the piece of concrete out to them and said, "You don't want to join the gang. You want to go home and rethink your life."
As the piece of concrete began to glow, the two young men repeated his words in strained mumbles before walking on to the street and away.
The man dropped the piece of concrete, put his arms into the trench coat, and vanished.
If the man makes the clothes do the clothes make the man?