269. Rupert’s coffee beans

269rupert

Bonita was famous. She was a film star. She was rich. She was divorced. She had a manservant called Rupert.

There were two things that Bonita detested; one was flies in the house, and the other was weak coffee. The coffee had to be ground from the beans. It had to be percolated. It had to be strong.

Quite frankly, Rupert was sick of it. He penned his resignation. He would hand it to Bonita tomorrow morning.

“Rupert! There are six dead blowflies on the window sill in the kitchen. And the coffee this morning was as weak as weasel piss.” She spoke the word “piss” like it was disgusting; like she was holding someone else’s used tissue that had snot in it. “Do better tomorrow.”

The morning came. Rupert cleaned the window sill. He ground the beans. He made the coffee. Later, he handed in his resignation.

“That’s a shame,” said Bonita. “This morning’s coffee was the tastiest you’ve ever made. It had a bit of body to it.”

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