Look how responsible you are! You're the Steve Jobs of no strings attached labor. Some day a ghostwriter will write your autobiography, but for now you pack your laptop and headphones and head to the coffee shop a few blocks away. It's busy, almost packed to the brim with people who have nowhere better to go. But don't worry! Your lucky table is still available! You set your stuff down and order the cheapest thing on the menu, and get to it. Your laptop flips on, your headphones click in, your fingers move almost on their own. You take a sip of the junior coffee and get ready to work in that spot for the next five hours.
Uh-oh. You look up and make eye contact with the barista. He's onto your freeloading plan and is being really pissy about it. He has an ICP tattoo on his forearm. It doesn't mean anything, but it's really unfortunate looking.
There's no easy way to put this, so I'll tell it like it is. Bouillon is died. He went missing before the weekend and yesterday I found his skeletonized remains at the bottom of the #3 soup vat during one of my swims. I thought the cream of mushroom soup had an especially nourishing taste, and a lot more clumps of fur and skin than usual.
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