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Judgement DayHis footsteps were unheard as he approached a suspicious looking warehouse. Smirking, he found the entrance, a small hole in the lower part of the front wall hidden by tiny shrubs, just large enough for a person to squeeze through, and stealthily made his way in, careful not to make any noise at all. As he cracked his knuckles, he scoped out the area. One of the two armchairs conveniently located against the wall opposite the entrance, was empty. However, in the other what seemed to be a human body was sleeping soundly. He fiddled around with the gun in his right hand and laughed menacingly to himself. Knowing that the person in the chair was a heavy sleeper, he knew that he no longer needed to keep quiet. He whistled and made his way over to them, smirking the whole time.
Finally, he was there, standing aside the armchair. He stretched now, played with his gun some more, and happily tho
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The Coffee GodThe Coffee God behind the counter shuffles foot to foot, a dance of steam and espresso. Black painted fingernails, inch gauged ears and a gray striped sweatshirt, hood crooked on his back. There's a cigarette tucked behind one ear; it bobs and twitches with each step.
“Non-fat caramel latte,” he calls, just as he always does, part of a spell, part of a mantra, toneless (just a tuck at the end). I reach. He looks up.
The espresso maker hisses.
There's something like a grin, something like a spark, something like a shared secret linked eye to eye. When he passes over the drink (rough cardboard sleeve hot to the touch), he lingers. Our fingers brush, a shiver, a jolt, a ten-watt shock.
The Coffee God tilts his chin, shouts, “Hey, mind if I take my break now?”
and ducks around the counter without waiting for a reply.
He slips his cigarette between his lips without taking his eyes from mine. I follow him out the door.
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