Marie sauntered into the site portacabin. Five men were seated at two tables, a hot-water urn steamed in the corner.
‘Howya doing, Rosie?’ said a thick-necked man.
‘My name’s, Marie.’
‘This is no place for a pretty woman named Marie. Convent’s over on James Street.’
One of the other men laughed.
‘You’ve nothing to giggle about, lard-ass. I’m a much better lay than you: bricks and bed.’
‘What are you? Some kind of lego whore?’ thick-neck said.
The roundhouse kick sent him tumbling to the floor, out cold.
Marie headed to the urn. ‘Anyone else want to test my patience?’
A drabble is a story of exactly 100 words.