The Magic God.

There was a man named Francis who had no teeth. Every day he would put in his dentures and ride the bus. All day, every day. Every day except Sunday. On Sundays he would drink cold coffee made the day before and feed the pigeons outside of Saint James Cathedral downtown. He would then take the 74 bus home and crash on the orange hide-a-bed in his studio apartment.
One day, Francis got on the bus to find his usual seat occupied by an elderly man in a pork pie hat and blazer.
"Pardon me," the man said, "I seem to be taking your seat. Would you care to sit?" The frustration Francis had felt melted away with the man's words; they were quaint and old world. "That's alright," Francis replied, his shoulders loosening. He grabbed hold of the overhead bar. I quite like standing."
The man smiled. "Suit yourself," he replied, as he tipped his hat. Suddenly, without warning, the bus lurched forward and Francis was thrown to the floor. The bus driver yelled at the car that had pulled in front of her. "Damn drivers taking up the entire bloody road! Look where you're going!" Francis picked up his false teeth--fallen on the floor--and put them back in his mouth. He turned to the seat of the elderly gentleman and asked, "you alright?" But he realized that the old man was nowhere to be seen.