Coffeebot Heroine

Coffeebot Heroine

This body is a hotel and a shrine. You can have it when I die.

Hoxton separatists with Romanian AK-47s and grenades, probably bought wholesale somewhere south of the river in a little place you’ve never heard of. My trousers were uncomfortably soaked in petrol as I was pinned down by small arms fire, hiding behind a black cab.

I’d explain, but I’m jonesing for my next double macchiato. My muscles are hurting and I’m sweating rivers. I’ve been here an hour, and the retro coffee house on the corner won’t bring me even a long black on account of the tossers in camouflage cardigans. I’ve called them a dozen times to ask, but they won’t relent. Last I called, I suggested they tape the lid on tight and use a belt to slingshot it to me. They suggested I keep my head down.