Using My Contusion

The beggar on our block has Katie, the doge, and me cornered on the steps, too polite as we are to simply walk away and go inside. He has regaled us, at length and in detail, including genealogies of the antagonists and a history of his troubles with them going back fifteen years, regarding the $300 he is owed for work which will not be paid until August, if then. 

I've tried to distract him from his obsessive recounting of the saga, to no avail, but when he launches into a third go round on the whole thing, starting all the way back at the beginning, I decide I've had enough.

"Look, man," I interrupt gently, shifting my weight a little to emphasize the issue, "my leg's kinda hurting here, so I think we're gonna head inside."