Ebb or flow, time and again, it seethes and churns in my blood. Even after scratching, the itch burns ever deeper in the flesh of my mind. Constant racing panic, a walk I'll never finish, the journey unending...

"Lunch!" I shout at 8:00PM, on the dot.

Thirty minutes is not enough time. It's never enough time.

Quick steps and a long stride make short work of a trip to the time clock and for more coffee. Eyes scan a handheld screen. Thumbs work overtime against the demon, auto-correct. One more paragraph. One more line of dialogue...

A name draws me out of the real work, my name.

"You going to lunch?" asks a figure vaguely recognized as a humanoid.

"I am at lunch," I reply from my desk, a fresh cup of coffee waiting for me to imbibe.

"Alright," grunts my coworker as they head for the break room.

Head first, I dive back in.

One reality falls away. Another takes shape. Dissonant whispers, clarion calls, epic to mundane, slice of life cut short by incomprehensible unknowns bleed through the pen at a snail's pace.

8:31PM.

Long steps cross the shop. Time punched. Back to desk. Sip coffee.

Delicious bitter caffeine tries to jump start a mind rotting in mediocrity.

I look over my next job. Estimated time: 15 to 20 minutes. I can get it done in less than 5. Then, I'll have 10 minutes to continue the real work before I start the next one.

Shouldering the weight of words unwritten, I get back to my job, and the unfulfilling, neverending dredge.

After several erroneous stops, I found myself on a mist shrouded street corner. A fedora shaded my eyes from glaring street light, above.  Stranger still, I wore a pinstriped suit. Easily, it was the best cut, and an effortless fit.  Things felt a little too natural in the fine fabrics.   I turned my gaze up to the street light, and fixed it with suspicion.

“Isn’t this a little over the top?” I asked the street light, as if it would answer me.

The light didn’t answer.

Righting my jacket, I stepped out into the street.  My shoes clicked, and their echoes drifted softly away into the obscuring swirls of white.  As I progressed, I found myself before a three story home.  It was squeezed between two other residences.  Born a millennial, I most assuredly felt out of place.  I felt like I was in an old mobster movie, or something about the 1920s.  However, there were certain signs that I was in exactly the kind of “place” I needed to be.

The houses to either side were nondescript.  Details of the house before me were crisp, crystal clear.  Focusing upon the neighbors awarded me nothing for my focus, as their details were muted.  The neighbors were unimportant.  Here, there was only this house.

This was it.

Steps led up to the door.  I stood at the foot of those steps, and looked down the street. Nothing was out there, not even road.  All I could see was mists made glaringly white by the street light behind me.  That was my way out, just in case.  On the other hand, I couldn’t keep the “Boss” waiting.  Their patience may be infinite, but there was no tolerance for excuses.

I ascended the steps and lightly knocked upon the door.  While I waited, I puzzled over what I might say.  How would I get inside?  The only armor afforded me was a suit.  I idly wondered what other tools I had been given.  I patted at my pockets, and immediately found something.  Retrieving a thick, leather wallet, I discovered my “shield.”  When I noted the peephole, I held my wallet open before it.

After a moment, the door opened.  The majority of what I saw was that of an elderly, african american woman.  She wore a bright yellow dress, and had a white apron on atop that.  However, the finer points of her face were distorted and vague. I somehow understood that she had spoken to me.  I didn’t hear any actual words.  But, I knew what she had asked.

“I’m sorry to disturb you at this late hour, ma’am,” I said, and respectfully tipped my hat to her.

She nervously shuffled and gave me a slight curtsey.  Mentally, I chided myself.  Civil Rights hadn’t been passed until much later than the 1920s.  This woman was a memory, ancient and vague, but somehow important.  She wasn’t real.  But, born and raised long after her struggles, I personally saw her as an elderly woman, who just happened to be black.  Times differed in memory.  Stubbornly, I refused to play the part given to me, and I gave her the respect she should have had.

“Nobody under your roof is in any trouble,” I told her, careful not to lie, even to a memory, “I’ve been making some inquiries in the area. May I come inside?”

Again without words, she humbly invited me in.  Stepping aside, she opened the door for me.  Remembering at the last second, I removed my hat, and smiled at her faceless face.

“Thank you, ma’am,” I said, “I won’t disturb you for long.”

Once inside, I saw a myriad of details.  Nothing was overtly strange in the onset, until one thought about the individual details.  A small boy lay upon a finely woven rug on the floor.  He was aptly watching the moon landing on a big screen TV.  The television had wooden paneling, similar to those during the TV’s humble origins.  But, when I really looked at it, the thing was a massive flat screen, mounted to the wall.

Walking about the living room, I couldn’t help but notice that there was no seating.  The elderly woman asked me if I wanted refreshment.  After I respectfully declined, she retreated down a hallway that I somehow knew was to a kitchen.  The hallway faded into indistinct semi-existence, and I realized she would not likely return.

Instead of seating, shelving decorated the walls.  And, upon the shelves were pictures. Instead of immediately announcing myself, I toured the shelves.  Unsurprisingly, the pictures I discovered first were of children.  I counted three boys and a girl.  The pictures of the boys were with baseball bats, or as tiny children being chased naked through their house.  The little girl wore her daddy’s mit on her head like a hat, and danced alongside her mother.

Many of these photos were stills, but there were a few that were so clear, they seemed alive.  In so very many of them, I saw the same woman.  She had skin so dark, it was very nearly black.  Yet, in the photos where she smiled, her smile literally shed light, brightening everything around her.  Soon, I saw photos of young men and women with children of their own.  I managed to catch similarities between a couple of the young boys from before.   Yet another generation, so picture perfect, bouncing here upon a knee or swaddled up in a blanket there.  These were memories of a long, full life.

This wasn’t going to be easy.

On I travelled, searching memories.  I found an old auto body shop, and four friends grinning like idiots in front of it.  Now, I seemed to travel back in time.  I saw meeting one of the four friends.  I saw three of them in military dress at an awards ceremony.  I was caught up short by a POV photo of a man’s arms held straight over another man.  The man below was bleeding his guts out.

That shot was way too clear.  I could smell the blood.

I saw trenches.  I saw many, many dead friends.  Photos too clear from too far back. Unforgettable memories, regardless of if they were wanted.  The further I went, the more I saw.  Briefings.  Boot Camp.  A goodbye kiss.  I found a small shrine, with a single picture frame upon it.  Yet, that frame was face down.

I needed to know more, so I carefully lifted it up.

It was a wedding picture, but the picture seemed crumpled, and burnt around the edges.  I matched the woman in the photo with the woman chasing after the children.  But, the angle in the photo was from the viewpoint of the best man.  When I turned again to check the photos of the children and grandchildren, I saw nothing but empty frames.

“What are you doing here?” asked a little voice.

Reigning in my sudden fear, I very, very carefully set the enshrined picture face down. Slowly, I turned around to face a little black boy.  He had a striped, longsleeve shirt and bluejeans.  But, he was barefoot.  He also had a half empty pint of tequila in his hand.

“I’m here to see you, Ernest,” I replied.

Crouching down on my haunches to be eye level with the little black “boy,” I took time to study him.  I made note of his receding hairline, and his cloudy left eye.  Age and a war wound gave truth to the inner deceptions.  Nothing was as it seemed, here.  It never was.

“What’s a copper like you want with a nobody like me?” Ernest asked me.

The boy was lifting the bottle.

“You’re a warrior, Ernest,” I said, and settled my hand upon his wrist, “One of the best.”

I wasn’t exactly sure why I knew Ernest’s name.  But, that came with the territory of being where I was.  Me knowing his name didn’t phase him one bit.  The little boy laughed at me, jerked his hand free, and glared as he sneered a smile.

“I ain’t been the ‘best’ o’ nothin’ in a long time, white boy.”

I sneered a smile back and said, “My employer thinks differently.”

The bottle almost reached the boy’s lips, but Ernest’s good eye locked onto me.  His smile melted, and he gave me a very unhappy glare.  The bottle came down.  As Ernest made a motion to sit, very abruptly, there was an old, beaten chair for him to sit in.  It was exactly his size.  Chair and boy melded together quite nicely.

Ernest growled, “I thought I told you devils to--”

“Wrong employer,” I interrupted.

Ernest nearly choked. His eyes darted about wildly as he went deep into thought.  After a moment, he tentatively looked up at me, and lifted his hand to point at the ceiling.   I smiled, and shook my head.

“Not the ‘Big Guy Upstairs,’ either.”

“Heh,” Ernest laughed bitterly, “thought so.”

“I represent a mediator between them,” I said, “Somebody you’ve already met.”

“Yeah?” Ernest laughed, lifting his bottle, again.

“From the look of things,” I said, stepping back over to the war stories, “you’ve seen quite a bit of him.”

I didn’t need to see Ernest to know he’d stopped moving.  I let the silence drag, listening very carefully for any movement.  I could still see the front door in my periphery.  I only had to make it through that door and out into the street if things got bad.  I had other opportunities.  However, this guy just might be my ticket.

“You’d best speak plainly, son,” said the little boy, “I’ve had about enough of this roundabout bullshit.”

“Alright then,” I said, turning to face him, “No games.  Everything up front.  I’ll tell all I’m allowed, and you get to make an informed decision.”

“Alright,” Ernest grunted, and screwed the cap onto his liquor bottle.

“But, I have conditions,” I said.

The boy laughed, and snidely remarked, “That’s rich.”

“One,” I said, unabated, “you don’t get to ask me questions.  I’ll tell you everything I’m allowed to tell you.  See, there are rules, in my profession.  And, I’m not gonna risk my neck so you can make a power play.”

Ernest’s sarcasm started to melt, as my words were making just a little bit of sense.

“Two,” I continued, “you have to decide, immediately.  See, my employer is patient. Infinitely patient.  Nuclear winter is a blink of an eye, here.  However, my employer also has a no tolerance policy for shenanigans.  You mess around, you’re done, and I’m done with you.  Understood?”

“This mean you got somethin’ to offer me?” Ernest asked.

“Three,” I finished, ignoring his question, “terms are non negotiable, but that goes both ways.  You make good on your end, so too will my employer.  See, when my boss speaks, angels shut up. Understand?”

“Who’s your boss?”

“No questions, Ernest. Are you ready to hear my offer?”

The little boy ran his tongue about the inside of his dry mouth.  The tequila in hand remained there.  He wanted a drink, but I knew better.  He never actually got a drink, here.  This wasn’t a place of vices sated or punishments given.  This was a place where lost souls were left to their memories.  Eventually, they’d forget everything, and any arguments about where they ended up were moot.  All they’d have left was the weight of their sins.  If it dragged them down, so be it.  If it merely slowed their ascent, so be it.  Purgatory was funny that way.   But, there were other options.  There were ways one could write off some “red” in their “ledger.”

“Shoot,” Ernest said.

“Don’t you interrupt me, now,” I said.

“You gonna spit it out, or are we gonna sit here until the next snake oil salesman makes an offer for my soul?”

“You only get one chance with my employer.”

“The middleman, right?”

“That’s the guy.”

“Alright, let’s hear it.”

I took a deep breath, and calmed myself.  I’d gotten this close at least a dozen times, already.  And, like I’d told Ernest, my employer didn’t take excuses.  Results were all that were acceptable.

“I’m a Necromancer,” I said, “Should you take my offer, Death Itself will raise you back into the world of the living.  However, you shall be a warrior again, and only in such a capacity are you allowed to exist.  You shall fight at my side, and protect me from other agencies.  I’m talking about those from below and above, too.  You see, Death has taken an interest in the little wager between the man upstairs and his pissed off kid, downstairs. I work for Death.  You’d work for Death too, but as my bodyguard.”

“Holy sh--”

“Decide, Ernest,” I intoned, “Will you remain here, uncertain, or will you take your fate into your own hands, and rise again as a Death Knight?”

“But, how will--”

I was starting to feel cold…

“The intricacies of Death’s dealings with the Holy and the Profane belong to Death.  The Living and the Dead are given understanding of such dealings upon Death’s discretion. But, in essence, the transition from Living to Dead and from Dead to Beyond belong to Death.  Now, no more questions, Ernest.  Decide, and quick.  Bossman is getting pissed.”

The little boy in his lazy boy stared up at me like I’d lost my mind.  But, time in purgatory is pretty standard.  The agencies that get the first crack at a soul are always from down below.  After that, an angelic agent may show up a time or two to guide.  The living are the last with the opportunity into Purgatory.  The time allowed to the living amongst the dead is at the leisure and pleasure of Death.

And, my fingers were going numb.

“Okay, Ernest,” I said, and stepped towards the door, “You can either come with me, or stay here. But, I’m leaving.”

“What?!” he yelped.

“I’m still alive, Ernest,” I explained, “but, staying here will kill me, and frankly, I don’t like you enough to stay.  But, you don’t have to stay.  You get one chance to change your fate.  This is it.”

“I…”

I opened the door, and settled my hat back atop my head.  As mist spilled out of the open doorway, I looked over my shoulder and asked, “You comin’?”

Ernest hopped up from his chair, and left the bottle behind.

Dear Journal,

It’s me, obviously. I visited Judy. She’s taken very well to her new medication. We carried on an entire conversation. Granted, I could not break character, and she was Faust. Strange how she cast me as the antagonist of the play. Perhaps she is still upset.

Yancey’s journal entry was interrupted by a phone call. Retrieving the offending device from his vest pocket, he noted the number. The only light in the small room was his desk light, illuminating the hardback journal, a sketchbook underneath, and the fountain pen used by the writer. The cell phone in hand cast Yancey’s dispassionate face in inhuman, blue light. After brief consideration, he answered.

“Mr. Valentine,” he sighed.

“H-have you s-s-seen the p-pap-per!?” yelped his frantic acquaintance.

“Of course,” Yancey said with a touch of pride in his voice.

The well dressed young man bent down and retrieved the Weekly Honker, and smiled down at the headline. Dead Student found in Diner Walk-In. Yancey’s normally cool demeanor changed. The frantic babblings of “Skeeter” Valentine were lost. A heady breath escaped Yancey as he read how the body of Roger M. Holtz was found inside a Walk-In Cooler. The picture was not of the body, but a painting of a bird in the victim’s blood.

“Stop,” Yancey suddenly snapped, “Repeat what you just said.”

Something the addict had rambled caught Yancey’s attention.

“Thecopsaskedmewhat’supwith--”

“Slow down. Breathe, Mr. Valentine. Breathe.”

“Right. Breathe. Breathe in. Breathe out. Right.”

“Don’t hyperventilate,” Yancey sighed, becoming more irritated by the millisecond, “Just tell me what the police asked you.”

“Th-they wanted t-to know if-if-if I knew of any new p-players in t-town.”

“What did you tell them, Mr. Valentine?” Yancey asked, debating Skeeter’s usefulness.

“I told ‘em I didn’t know nothin’!” Skeeter babbled, managing not to stutter an entire sentence.

Yancey recognized this as a tell, of course. Mr. Valentine could only keep himself from stuttering when he’d recently had a fix. And, if he’d have gotten a fix, the addict would have passed out. Yancey was beginning to regret supplying his informant with quality product.

“Good,” Yancey soothed over the phone, “Very good.”

“G-good?”

“Yes, Mr. Valentine. You’ve done well.”

Yancey absently reached out and stroked an item just out of the lamp’s light. It was a bleached white canine skull. It was a calming gesture, something Yancey did only when he was calming himself.   Plans were blooming in his mind. Yancey had his own addiction that he needed to satisfy.  But, he had to be patient for his next fix.  He would have to make do with sketches, for now.

“But,” Skeeter mumbled, “this crazy b-bird guy is k-killing d-dealers.”

Yancey’s hand paused upon the skull. All emotion bled out of his expression.

Crazy.

Bird.

Guy.

“You needn’t worry, Mr. Valentine,” Yancey said, still in the same calming, friendly tone, “I’ll take care of you.”

“Y-you will?”

“Of course! I take very good care of my friends, Mr. Valentine. Let me handle this ‘Serial Killer Issue,’ alright?”

“You’ll t-take c-care of him?”

“Let’s just say he’s become incorporated into my long term plans,” Yancey cryptically admitted, “I’ll see an advantage out of this, yet.”

“That’s g-good,” Skeeter sighed in abject relief.

“If there is nothing else?” Yancey asked.

“Huh?”

The fingers on Yancey’s free hand slipped into the eye sockets of the dog skull on his desk. He had to take a calming breath to cool his murderous anger.  But, he mentally berated himself, as well. One gets what one pays for, especially if the currency is drugs.

“Is there anything else you want to tell me, Mr. Valentine?” Yancey asked, much more calmly than he felt.

“N-no. I don’t th-think so.”

“Then, I bid you goodnight.”

“Oh, hey, b-boss,” Skeeter was asking as Yancey hung up on him, “c-can I--”

The young man barely had time to remove his fingers from the skull before his phone vibrated, again. This time, he saw a text message. It was from a particularly interesting young woman, one Yancey had to leave alone, for now. This was especially true, given the nature of the text message.

Bluff: We’re in.

Sighing in satisfaction, Yancey pocketed his phone, and returned to his journal entry.

On a side note, obstacles are falling away. I just secured access to a prominent investor. Personal interest in the Heiress aside, she shall be a longtime business partner. Her interest in certain individuals shall be a great ally over time.

-Douglass Yancey Funnie.

Finished with his journal entry, Yancey closed his journal, and retrieved the skull from atop his desk. Turning it to face him, he smiled up into its empty sockets. No longer would it destructively run about the house or spill his ink.  But, it had always been faithfully at his side.  So shall it remain, forever, just like Holtz, and Patti.  The only way he could truly rely on anyone was if they were dead. Otherwise, Deception was the only Truth.

“Bluffington shall be mine, Porkchop,” he said to the pet he’d murdered, “It’s no longer a question of ‘if.’ But, when.”

What a fool he was, wishing there was something only he could do. This dream turned nightmare had outfit him with handlers, bullet resistant equipment, and “Oversight.” They had preyed upon his infantile belief, “there’s got to be more to life than this.” At first, he was excited by answers.

He had no idea how painful those “answers” would be.

Ears ringing, he dragged himself to hands and knees. Cement dust spilled from him like water from falls. Chunks of the same landed about him like hail. Alone for the first time in months, he witnessed it all without consciously appreciating his momentary solitude.

He was so heavy.

Pattering in staccato echoed through the ringing in his ears. Vague relief bled through before he recognized the sound. The fight continued. Some survived. That was enough.

Was he enough?

Shuddering breath sucked in soot, dust, and death. He was only used to one of those scents. The other two choked him. Stubbornly, he let himself cough only once before releasing a controlled groan. Bleary eyes lifted from his debris covered, concrete “bed.” His gaze swept through this building’s craterous holes.

Naptime was over.

Shapes darted to and fro in the sky above him. Light from the setting sun lit the concrete dust still hanging in the air. Barely registered shadows whirled about the shapes as they spat sparks and fire. Three came into view, floating in formation. Pristine orchestration dropped blurs from shapes, blurs that erupted light behind them. The ringing in his ears could not subdue the faint roar after roar after roar.

Briefly, his concrete “Bed” shook.

Trembling hands met unsteady knees. Distant, painful protests lifted up in a biological choir of anger. But, he ignored his body’s complaints. He had a job to do. There was something only he could do! Uncle Sam had given him purpose. It had only cost him…

“...-port, damnit!” crackled a voice in his ear, screaming over the ringing.

Dragging his hateful, dusty grey body to stand, he closed his eyes and tensed up. Years of intensive, micro-muscular training hit surgically implanted sensors. Internal systems rebooted. Protocols appeared across ocular “anchors,” and transformed into a HUD. Carefully trained micro-movements of his eyes took in the last laser scan of the terrain. There was a twelve second delay, but he could see the office building he’d wrecked on the minimap.

“Brave 7, checking in,” he groaned.

“Sweet Jesus,” his handler sighed in relief over the radio, “Seven, what the--”

“EMP,” he groaned, reaching up.

His hand went through a hole in his helmet, and touched the side of his reinforced skull. Pulling bloodied fingers into view, he appraised the green goo on his fingertips as it quickly evaporated in tiny green flames. Of course, the ocular nano-camera implants had caught the image, as well.

“Seven?” his handler asked in a warning tone of concern.

“A really close EMP,” he said as he removed his useless helmet.

It was only camouflage that let him fit in with other grunts, anyway. Boots on the ground needed protective gear. At this point, it would be silly to simply say he had a “hard head.” Then again, there was a lot about him that was pretty silly in comparison to things. For example, when asked “how are you?” his answer could be pretty specific.

“How--?”

“Your fifty-billion dollar man is fine,” he interrupted, reading over his internal diagnostics, “Besides, this is a live fire test, right? It wouldn’t be a real operation in the field if everything didn’t go wrong.”

“Soldier,” his handler growled.

Suddenly, the bionic warrior nearly tore his body armor from his chest. With blinding speed, yet infinite care, he retrieved a photo from his pockets. It was the only thing on him with any real value to him. A bullet hole had replaced the smiling face he’d memorized. The proof he had that he was still human was warped and twisted by that hole. The familiar scene of a summer at Lake Hefner was indistinguishable from the hell he had woken up in.

His handler said nothing.

With his hearing clearing up, there were voices deep in the background of the radio. He made out the word “Contraband.” Slowly, he crumpled the ruins of the old photograph. His eyes closed. But, he couldn’t shut out the battle. He had live data broadcast into his eyes.

“You fat cats want to see the difference between me and drones?” he snapped.

Data was summoned by dozens of microscopic eye motions and tugging of specially trained muscles. Trajectories, weapon locks, projections, and more flooded his HUD. Chemically enhanced muscles had limiters removed. A binary broadcast was sent through an encrypted channel, giving the flight of drones an order to pull back.  Stubbornly, he held onto a belief.  There is more to life, so very much more. 

He was protecting it.

“Don’t blink,” he growled, twelve seconds before he abruptly, monstrously ended the battle.

A congregation stands amidst a nebulous void, debating the intricacies of errant thought. Alighting this darkness are distant stars, constellations of thought. Concepts, people, places, some are individual stars that flicker alone or shine brightly. Others are entire galaxies, and more than one is currently colliding with--

“Nobody cares how we work,” scoffs a voice from the ether.

He could be immaculately dressed, if half a care was given for his attire. Forever alone--as if he could need anyone else--his presence blocks the view of a specific galaxy. He wears a tattered vest because it’s comfortable. It keeps his things more readily at hand, and he hates things in the pockets of his khakis. Despite his stand between others and specific memories, he’s still wearing an exact copy of her fedora.

“The topic is social acceptability, not methodology,” continued the Voice of Realism, “Idiot.”

“A valid, if blatantly argumentative, point,” chimed in another.

“Agreed,” agreed a second.

“Seconded,” seconded a third.

“Wait,” queried a fourth voice, “to which are we agreeing?”

“Pardon?” asked yet another, “Explain your question.”

“Are we agreeing to the validity of the point or its argumentative tone?”

A brief pause was answered with a resounding, “Yes.” by a coterie of lab coats. They were surrounded by laboratory equipment and drawing boards. Alchemists and Scientists called Reason, Logic, Point, Counterpoint, Counter-counterpoint, and so forth. The true challenge would be getting their names right.

“Anyway,” sighed an elderly gentleman with a long beard, a longer staff, and a hooded robe that changed colors, depending on the mood. It was currently a neutral grey.

“One day,” said a robed gentleman with a shaved head, seated in the lotus position beside the old man, “they will all agree upon something, at the same time.”

“May the gods of every faith preserve us, and prevent that day,” chuckled the old man.

“Bored, now,” grumbled an impishly sized, near infantile facsimile of a human being, seated in a particularly nasty nebula.

Dark red skin, wings, and pointed tail all seemed to twitch with irritation. The inhuman glow from its eyes flitted from being to being, considering its next moves. A sneer of contempt exposed a single, yellow fang.

“You’re always bored,” hissed a dead voice, rasping like crumpling ashes.

Clad in a half frozen suit, the skeletal source of those words took a moment to adjust its tie. Skeletal fingers carefully, patiently took purchase. New frost coated the garment, spreading from the freezing, blue flames it had for skin.

“Boobs!” whispered the skittish geek in the corner.

“Oh, shut up,” snapped the united voices of Self-Loathing, Vexation, and Hate.

“What are we doing, again?” mumbled the old wizard while the science team was distracted by the geek in the corner.

Meanwhile…

“Hi!” exclaimed the barista in false cheer, “What can I get ya?”

“Um,” I stutter, trying to remember where I am and what I’m doing, “I’ll have…”

Back in the brain…

“We’re ordering coffee?” grumbled Self-Loathing, “We forgot that we were ordering coffee. Really?”

“Just order what we always order,” echoed the icy sigh of Hatred, “We have things to do.”

“You and your plans,” impishly sneered Vexation.

“What do we always order, again?” asked someone in a lab coat.

“Oh, come on!” boomed a minotaur of steel as it thunderously took center stage. Flames spilled forth from its open jaws as it roared, “It’s not that hard!”

“Hard!” yelped the geek in the corner, “Boobs!”

In reality…

While the voices in my head shouted obscenities at each other, I took a breath, and tried to focus on the menu.  Why was I suddenly angry?  The barista was cute.  And, working behind a register and serving coffee isn't a job I remember fondly.  But, I always get the same thing, anyway. Unless there’s seasonal choices. Those are tasty--

Stop!

Focus.

“... I’ll have a Venti Triple Mocha.”