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I was growing more and more disgusted with the way everyone was ordering their latte. The coffee shop was full of what seemed like robots to me, cappuccino automatons, programmed to carry out a latte-apprehending algorithm, followed by a trip to Banana Republic. God, how boring, no edges, straight ahead. Grande-decaf-skim, latte this, latte that, frappacino, frappafucko, mocha-skim, decaf fuck-anal. “HOW ‘BOUT A FUCKING BLACK COFFEE, HUH!?!!??”
The coffee shop went silent. I glanced around the room at the empty menacing stares and my ire and disgust evaporated. It was replaced by a flowing terror; these people hated me. The barrista took one step forward and hurled an espresso filter handle at my face. It crashed into the side of my head and one of the espresso efflux-chutes opened the skin on my cheek. Before I could feel the pain someone behind me brought a 50 pound burlap coffee-bean bag down on my head. I collapsed.
The gathered crowd was upon me. They kicked my torso and I heard ribs cracking. They rained blows on my skull and kicked my legs. Bruises, blood and I was slowly losing consciousness. Just prior to blacking out I saw the barrista rip a plastic to-go lid in half and with the jagged shard he sliced my forehead open. Blood ran into my eyes partially blinding me. He then dropped his pants, squatted over me and spread his butt cheeks. I have this very sharp memory of seeing his sphincter twitch, pucker and then open like the mouth of a bird, and he sprayed my wounded forehead with a muddy, lumpy splattering.
When he was done, he poured a scalding triple skim decaf latte over his handiwork and then dusted my head with a fine espresso grind. “No black coffee,” the barrista said witheringly with a hiss, “only espresso-based drinks are served here.”
Date Written: July 18, 2004
Author: John Slocum
Average Vote: 4