Son of A Gun

My normal coffee writing consumption is the Michael – four shots of espresso in a non-fat mocha, in a twelve ounce cup. One barista always charged me less than the others, putting me into an OCD tizzy. She explained that the sixteen ounce is actually less expensive because it already includes four shots. So she would charge me for a sixteen ounce and put it into a twelve ounce cup.

I was duly awed by her thinking. I was due a free mocha today as part of the customer loyalty program so I went for a sixteen ounce mocha.

“You want extra shots?” Shannon asked. “It comes with four but we can bump it up to six.”

Six? Dare I?

Hell, yeah, I’m sixty years old.

Just call me a six shooter, an old son of a gun, a word slinger.

“I’m a cowboy. On a laptop, I write. I’m wanted, dead or alive.”

Sorry, Bon Jovi, but my words make as much sense as your lyrics.

Time to write like caffeine infused crazy, at least one more time.

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