“Will you blow into this colostomy bag? Will you scratch an itch from under my arse, before you breathalyse me? I’m over the limit of the black stuff I drink. The coffee has gone to my head.”
She winced a smile from the side of her mouth, and waved me on my way.
54-word story
Published by
From Bath to Cork with baby Grace 
I think Balzac drank fifty cups a day. How many do you need to write?
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