Gentrified

A cup of coffee, all Frank wants is a bloody cup of coffee. He doesn't give a shit where it's from, Sumatra, Peru, Ethiopia, who cares, it's not like he's the UN for cryin out loud. Just a freaking cup of coffee, black, no milk or cream or soya or what the jesus, almond milk. What the hell is that. Who drinks milk made from almonds? How do you even milk an almond? When did everything get so bloody complicated. All Frank wants is his cup of morning coffee to help shake off the bourbon fog. Hot and black so he can slug it back with his smokes. That's it, that's all she wrote. Coffee that doesn't cost him four bucks a shot. Whole neighbourhood's gone to ratshit since Jimmy's Place closed. Thirty two years Frank counted on Jimmy's for a decent cup of joe, corn beef on rye, bottle of Blue, Maker's Mark when he was feeling flush, and time on the table where he didn't have to hustle frat boys to get a game in. Easy living. Now these bloody hipster kids with their stupid moustaches and horn rimmed glasses, channeling his father for christsake, with their weird looking bicycles and skinny pants, picking through garbage for used lp's and plastic lounge chairs. This is what happens when rent is cheap and the old guard kicks the bucket. Frank's a dying breed, he feels it every time he tries buy a paper or a bloody cup of coffee. Now the corner store stocks fancy ass artisan bread and $6 jars of mustard. His kingdom for a can of sardine's and box of Premium Plus and French's yellow for a buck forty nine.

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