I was walking the dogs down Booth, near Lebreton Flats, when I saw a note torn to pieces, scattered all over the ground. Without hesitation, I started hunting for all the bits, stuffing them into my pocket. If someone tears up a note, you can be sure there's some juicy information contained in those tiny little bits.

Turns out that I was born to hunt scraps of paper -- I found them all except one single piece.

When I got home, Michelle and I assembled the note on the dining room table. The scraps provide an odd and mysterious peek into a person's life, as all good found things do.

Here's my rough translation of the handwriting, as well as my guess at what the missing text might be:

I feel ashamed of you as my father you crackhead.

Listen mutherfucker I know its you ABO (Abdi) who keep touching my stuff. Listen mutherfucker you crackhead I have friends that told me you smoke [crack].

That's why you are a fucking bum. This is the last fucking warning I'm giving you -> you crackhead. I'm telling hoyo that [you are] bringing my friend who you smoke [crack with with] you on the streets begging for money.