This ultra-short story seems simple enough, but it was composed under a rather exacting restriction. Can you figure out what it is?
Boulevard Diner, eleven-forty.
I down a hot cup of java.
It’s too quiet.
As a gun barrel whacks my noggin,
I realize Dixie set me up.
I’ll post another such story tonight.
(Yes, I concede that you can find the answer through strategic Googling. But wouldn’t it be more fun not to?)