Mr. Smith existed in a flux state outside the bar south of the main town junction. For people who knew him, he was Mike who doffed his hat. For the rich, he was a filthy beggar. For the disgustingly rich, he was the valet who looked like he might steal their car.
His destiny was tied to that of the bar. Every night, he would be twenty or thirty different people, each with different looks and mannerisms. His real name was, of course, not Mike.
At the end of the night, he would don a snazzy suit kept in the haversack he sat on, and he would enter the bar. Every night was a test of the bouncer’s ability to identify coolth.
If the bar passed Mr. Smith’s inspection, he would write out a nice report. Bar inspection wasn’t really the best job for a shapeshifter of his ilk, but he maintained many jobs in many shapes – detective, actor, exam faker and so on. Anything that would keep him in form.