The creature is never late. Three-thirty-three AM, every single night, without fail for the last nine years, the 'demon' pours out of the broken grease trap at the back of the shop like the worst vodka-diarrhea you've ever heard. Bits and pieces, wet and chunky and impossible to even look directly at, a slurry of pseudopods and vomit and teeth and thousands of crushed human eyes that congeals together over five or ten nauseating minutes. It can't speak, because it doesn't have anything approaching a human mouth, but it can slop wetly across the floor and leave a glistening brown-red trail that more or less reads the same, even when we scream at it not to bother - we know what it's going to order.

The owner says this place used to be a pizzeria, and that a bunch of kids once performed some kind of bullshit seance or whatever in the bathroom during a birthday party, the kind of thing that happens when your birthday is on Halloween and you're nine years old and don't understand how the multiverse really works. If enough dumbass children do enough bullshit rituals at enough haunted pizzerias, one day they're going to annoy Something and it's going to slough through the hole in reality. They closed the place two months later, when they finally had to admit the stains were never coming out.

Why they turned it into a cafe, I'll never know. I started here two years ago and this nonsense was already tradition. The shitbarf-demon always spews out of the same broken grease trap, always writes 'Dirty Soy Chai Latte W/Vanilla' on the bottom of the old dish sink, and of course we make it, we pour it down the hole, and then the thing regurgitates a bunch of old coins that no one wants to touch. Morning crew's job is to use the scraper rake thingie hanging above the sink and shove them all back down the drain.

The thing never tips, but it also never complains, so I'd say that puts it a cut above our regular clientele.

I need to get out of this shithole town.