The Client

With a few sudden strokes of his acquamarina felt-tip pen, Hammer jotted down a figure on his notebook. Energetically ripping the page off, he handed it over to her.

- This much? But,… Mr Hammer, I just told you: that bastard left me penniless. He burned all our money at the race-tracks.

- No problem, madame, it will be on the house, then! –snapping his fingers high in the air, he exclaimed: Garzon, two more birritas here!

The elegant Viennese turn of the century cafe had surrendered to the Fish’n'chips to go unsavoriness of its new occupants. A slow, red-headed teenager dropped their orders on the table.

- Will that be all, then…? –he half-heartedly mumbled, as he picked his nose with cold, reptile-like, precise movements.

After the lad had dully left, Tony attacked the fish voraciously.

- Mother…! –He cried, spitting out the contents of his mouth — We’ve been had… It’s Chel√≥n LaBrosus!

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