Joe circled the table. He'd seen lots of coffee beans in his life. He'd seen women ravished and men killed over coffee beans. He leaned toward them and sniffed, relishing the rush.
He had choices. He could just leave. He could slip them into his pocket, He could swallow them. He could inform the authorities. Joe had good instincts about things like this. He knew there had to be more to it.
Under the table was a note. He read the following: Help! I'm trapped inside one of these beans. If you choose the right one and free me untold riches will come your way. Choose the wrong one and you will be cursed with irritable bowel syndrome the rest of your life.
Joe sighed. He knew the guy who wrote this. Jesus, Vince, how do you get into these messes?
Sorry, came a tiny voice.
Joe shook his head. I am so sick of magical realism.
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