Con Artist

“My mudda didn’t give me anythin’ to eat.”

“Well that’s too bad,” Gram said noticing the milk mustache on his face. “I’ll scramble you an egg.”

Patrick put down the fork and burped when he had finished the last bite. He slid off the chair until his feet touched the floor.

“Bye,” he said shutting the door.

Holding onto the stair railing he walked up to the third floor apartment and knocked on the door.

“Daisy, my mudda didn’t feed me any breakfast.”

“What a shame,” she said noticing the yellow egg yolk stain on his shirt.

“Got any toast?”

“Sure come on in.”

Patrick finished the toast and slid off the chair. When he closed the door he said, “See ya tomorrow.”

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