No one comes around this late, but that’s to be expected; small town Appalachia isn’t known for its night life. My few customers are police officers looking for a boost, maybe the odd plant worker fresh off third shift. The job is slow, and that suits me fine. I spend quiet nights getting paid in exchange for days all to myself. There is one thing though…
I’m not sure what to call it. It’s told me before, in some garbled dialect I’m not ready or able to understand, but regardless I call it ‘demon’. It’s a foul thing, some non-Euclidean horror almost beyond my comprehension, and it wants a latte. I think it does, at least. Just over a year I’ve worked in this coffee shop, and just over a year this thing has visited me nightly.
Its arrival is always unpleasant. At 3:33am, without fail, the brief shadows cast by the chandeliers above begin to distort as if they were being stretched open, like so many dozens of appendages tearing a hole in the fabric of my reality. It seeps from this hole, clambering from the void in one fluid motion. In its presence, the air of the room changes, suddenly chilled and reeking of ozone. I exist quietly behind the bar, the idle hum of the espresso machine filling my ears, waiting for the demon to acknowledge me.
It has learned to approach the counter before uttering its single question, understanding the abstract ritualism we take for manners. I do my best to observe the demon as it creeps across the floor, with no avail. My eyes can never focus, unable to identify any single feature or surface. It’s unlike anything I’ve seen before, or will ever see again. Lacking any natural features, it’s no surprise that is has no vocal chords either. Still it always tries to form words I’ll understand; a respectable attempt. It at least understands me, and I suppose that’s all that matters.
I ask what it would like. In turn it replies, straining to match the pitch and cadence of any proper English speaker. ‘Latte’ or ‘Coffee’, it hisses. And so I make a Latte, careful to make it right for fear of some otherworldly retribution. I press on the cup’s lid before slipping it into a protective cardboard sleeve, under the assumption it can register heat at all. I place the drink on its side of the counter, and on cue it dispenses an ornate, glimmering coin from its being. I struggle to describe these coins. They change at a moment’s notice, altering slightly in color and feature with each glance I take. I nod before plucking it from the tabletop.
The demon takes the latte but never drinks it, clutching it as if writhes back across the room towards its entry. In a moment it melts back into the shadows, finally allowing them to return to the shape light cast them in.
I’m not sure why that thing comes to my store, or where it takes that coffee, but I am sure it’s for someone or something else. I can recognize the bad temperament of an unpaid intern anywhere, and I can only hope whatever dark lord it serves is content with its beverage, for its sake and mine. I seem to be doing well so far.
Now, the most troubling dilemma is finding use for these coins. I have almost four hundred of them now. No appraiser can identify their origin, much less their worth. That’s okay, I guess. Might need them one day.
MindlessSalt t1_iueppjl wrote
Reply to [WP] You are a barista in a 24 hour coffee shop. Every night at 3:33am a demon appears for the Dark Lord's latte. by WarturtleWitch
No one comes around this late, but that’s to be expected; small town Appalachia isn’t known for its night life. My few customers are police officers looking for a boost, maybe the odd plant worker fresh off third shift. The job is slow, and that suits me fine. I spend quiet nights getting paid in exchange for days all to myself. There is one thing though…
I’m not sure what to call it. It’s told me before, in some garbled dialect I’m not ready or able to understand, but regardless I call it ‘demon’. It’s a foul thing, some non-Euclidean horror almost beyond my comprehension, and it wants a latte. I think it does, at least. Just over a year I’ve worked in this coffee shop, and just over a year this thing has visited me nightly.
Its arrival is always unpleasant. At 3:33am, without fail, the brief shadows cast by the chandeliers above begin to distort as if they were being stretched open, like so many dozens of appendages tearing a hole in the fabric of my reality. It seeps from this hole, clambering from the void in one fluid motion. In its presence, the air of the room changes, suddenly chilled and reeking of ozone. I exist quietly behind the bar, the idle hum of the espresso machine filling my ears, waiting for the demon to acknowledge me.
It has learned to approach the counter before uttering its single question, understanding the abstract ritualism we take for manners. I do my best to observe the demon as it creeps across the floor, with no avail. My eyes can never focus, unable to identify any single feature or surface. It’s unlike anything I’ve seen before, or will ever see again. Lacking any natural features, it’s no surprise that is has no vocal chords either. Still it always tries to form words I’ll understand; a respectable attempt. It at least understands me, and I suppose that’s all that matters.
I ask what it would like. In turn it replies, straining to match the pitch and cadence of any proper English speaker. ‘Latte’ or ‘Coffee’, it hisses. And so I make a Latte, careful to make it right for fear of some otherworldly retribution. I press on the cup’s lid before slipping it into a protective cardboard sleeve, under the assumption it can register heat at all. I place the drink on its side of the counter, and on cue it dispenses an ornate, glimmering coin from its being. I struggle to describe these coins. They change at a moment’s notice, altering slightly in color and feature with each glance I take. I nod before plucking it from the tabletop.
The demon takes the latte but never drinks it, clutching it as if writhes back across the room towards its entry. In a moment it melts back into the shadows, finally allowing them to return to the shape light cast them in.
I’m not sure why that thing comes to my store, or where it takes that coffee, but I am sure it’s for someone or something else. I can recognize the bad temperament of an unpaid intern anywhere, and I can only hope whatever dark lord it serves is content with its beverage, for its sake and mine. I seem to be doing well so far.
Now, the most troubling dilemma is finding use for these coins. I have almost four hundred of them now. No appraiser can identify their origin, much less their worth. That’s okay, I guess. Might need them one day.