just how wealthy was robin hood?

I awake to a crash downstairs around 3 A.M. and decide that my roommate tripped while taking in his bicycle post-midnight nightly ride. The guy is fucking crazy, I think. Here we are, the middle of summer with the most sweltering heatwave we've ever had and he's out riding his bike. Although the situation could be life or death, I deem it nothing worth to investigating. I easily fall back asleep.

My alarm goes off far too early. After adding a few minutes and resetting it a few times, the fact that it was set for a specific time for a very good reason sets in. Already I'm late and inexplicably I feel like Jeff my biking fanatic roommate is to blame. With last night coming back into my recollection, I determine that I will great Jeff with my hands firmly placed around his neck. I dress and drag myself downstairs.
Sure enough at the bottom of the stairs a huge mass of cloth covers Jeff. At this moment strangling seems oddly inappropriate – perhaps something more passive aggressive will suffice for my means of revenge. His health can't be in too good of condition if he's spent eight hours on our grimy tile floor. Lovingly, I nudge where his ribs should be beneath the army green cloth. No response. Next I try lovekicks. These I enjoy a bit too much a stop myself before lovekicks turn into revengekicks. Still, nothing.
It dawns on me that something could be seriously wrong with Jeff. On second observation, this scene looks utterly bizarre: since when does he have such ratty clothes? And true, Jeff's workouts make an unpleasant scent, but never before has it smelled like the polluted river that runs in back of our apartment.
I formulate the answer to these question: this is not Jeff. Furthermore, if this is not Jeff, then this is not good. A stranger is laying facedown on my tile.
My next thought is I am going to get sued for the lovekicks. This thought luckily passes and I return back to being a concerned human being.
“Jeff?” I holler up the stairs. I yell out a few more times just for safe measure before I see a groggy figure standing at the top of the chairs. He just stairs.
“Is this yours?”
“Is what mine?”
“This person?”
“What are you talking about? Are you talking about Emily? I told you not to talk about her that way...”
His thoughts meandering, I redirect his attention.
“Chill. No, this person laying on our tile. Do you know who he is?”
“Negative.”
I sigh. He sighs. We all sigh.
Jeff climbs down the stairs and we both sit hunched over on the bottom step.
“I'm gonna go get my knife,” he declares.
I plead. “Please don't get your knife.”
“I gotta get my knife. He could have a knife. You know what he will do if he has a knife?”
Silence.
“He'll turn out to be a psycho and start stripping our skin off like in that movie Hannibal.”
Jeff doesn't see the irony in the situation. He goes to get his knife amongst my protests in the background. When he gets back he holds the damn thing out unsheathed.
“Will you at least put a cover on that thing?”
“No man. When he wakes up that's when he'll strike.”
“You're saying that this man is expecting two people staring at him the moment he wakes up?”
“Exactly.”
There is no arguing with Jeff.
“You're going to scare the shit out of him, that's what you're gonna do.”
“Better him then me.”
I don't know what that means but let it rest.
Jeff, absorbing his environment a little more, realizes I am late for work.
“Are you gonna go in today?”
“As soon as this is taken care of.”
“It could be hours, man.”
“I doubt it.” I resume my lovekicks: this time they succeed. The man groggily rubs his fists against his eyes and shirks off the mass of clothing covering him. Predictably he has an unkempt beard and absolutely no fashion sense.
“What's the deal, man?” he asks me. “I'm trying to sleep.”
“Oh.” I respond.
Jeff chimes in: “The man has a point.”
“Shut up Jeff. A moment ago you had a knife pulled on the guy.”
This statement instills fear in our mystery man. He has become rapidly alert.
“Look man, I don't want no trouble. I just needed a place to sleep last night. It's like a furnace out there. It's like hell. Hope you don't mind I took your AC.”
“Thief!” Jeff yells out. “He stole our air conditioner! I can't fucking believe it.” Unluckily Jeff has forgotten he wields a knife as he flails his arms. Our walls now have exotic decorations on them.
“I don't think he stole our air conditioning,” I explain. “As you can tell, our house is still quite cool. I think he means he used our air conditioner.”
This makes sense and Jeff reluctantly calms down.
Understandably on edge, the man apologies for any inconvenience and excuses himself from our household.
“Some people are just weird,” Jeff proclaims.