Sure thing Bill!” That’s what Raz likes about his old boss. Take charge kind of person-shaped-entity. Sees a problem, comes in to lay order into the chaos. Hell of a guy.

He ducks down into the cabinet with the aprons and starts digging around. Could it still be… yep! He stands up and looks at the old apron with a certain amount of fondness.

“Be right there folks. Just take a moment to remember your favorite sunrise. You know, the one after your first kiss, the one that snuck up and revealed that you had been up all night. The one that made you realize you were both fundamentally the same but still forever different, the colors of the new day tinged with excitement and awe and even an inexplicable melancholy? That’s the one.”

He glances down at his tattered shirt and frowns at the coffee and blood spatters. Not good to wear on the job. When he pulls off his shirt and reveals dark bronze skin that seemed to glow around the swooping and swirling tattoos there are several gasps from the customer line. A phone clatters to the ground.

Raz ties the apron and turns to the register. It’s the same as it ever was, the big mechanical contraption that was state of the art, circa 1965. That was a good year! No problems there

The problem is that there isn’t anyone working the espresso machine. The man who has been there was gone, and Deacon seems to be undergoing some sort of grooming or maintenance with the snarly one whose name he hasn’t got? Raz didn’t know a lot about demonic parabiology. Like did they eat? From what he remembers Deacon seems to run on caffeine, nicotine, and scorn.

Anyway, Raz has never figured out how to make anything other than a regular cup of coffee. He knows how to tune the Divine Harmonics that kept the Celestial Spheres aligned and rotating, but the complexities of that espresso machine? Another league entirely.

Plus, the machine seems to be utterly terrified, as far as he could tell. It looks ready to emit a milk-curdling scream at any moment. He gave it a reassuring pat. “Hey now, it’s cool. Take, like, a moment for you. Self-care is time well spent.” It looks like there are still quite a few untouched cup of… something.

Why did he need coffee anyway?

Oh right! Customers!

He reviews the long line of people in front of him. About a third are openly staring at him. About a third are gazing off into the middle distance, eyes lost in the past, some slightly teary. And about a third are checking watches and phones for the time and grumbling.

This was turning into a weird day. But what did Hunter say? “When the going gets weird, the weird turn pro.” Time to do what he knows how to do. Get people what they really wanted. Or help them realize what that was.

Man, Thompson was a blast at parties. Though Raz still feels a little hurt he’d been left out of Hunter’s story about their Las Vegas trip, which otherwise was a quite accurate account.

So he starts working the line of customers.

“…sure I’ll take a selfie with you! You gotta love yourself, you know? That’s why The Man is so against selfie culture. If you love yourself, you don’t need to buy anything…”

“…my what? Arm? Ok. Ah, and this is your number? Righteous…”

“…and acidity and nitrous are all old hat, man. Real coffee connoisseurs know that this season about one thing: viscosity. Let me show you our latest breakthrough. Gonna blow your mind…”

“…I’m not really new, just back from vaycay. But yeah, I’ll be here later…”

“…he clearly doesn’t deserve you, man. You are something special and if all he’s going to do is take and take, you need to find someone who’s willing to recognize..”

“…just write it below the other two, ok? I just need to get the phone set up in my new place, once I get a new place…”

“…lemme blend this with some ice then. It’s gonna be like an affogato gelato macchiato which is, like, all the rage in Europe…”

The line shrunk, and shrunk, and shrunk. It seems like people are leaving quite happy, even if the register isn’t ringing very much.

Clementine and Lionel wind up and hightail it, an effect so utterly cartoon-like that Lorelei actually pictures their arms stretching back to fetch lost bits of themselves.

driiiiin driiiin

Her brows rise as her focus skips from the shattered front door to the hulking mass of Bill, bossest boss ever, a spray of sunlight cutting his figure exceptionally remote. Working at Pandemonia generally bites the big one, but currently? Best job ever.

Bill delegates duties like a bored scout leader then disappears. She registers every word he says, noting Archie’s position and the broken glass at his feet, as well as the delightfully dreaded new guy, Razikiel (“I’m Raz BTW”), who’s apparently not that new at all.

Ultimately her gaze returns to Deacon. His red eyes level with hers as if challenging her to take a stab at ‘fixing’ him. His shirt is smeared with Clementine’s bloody handiwork.

“Lorelei, I’m perfectly capable-“ He attempts to twist away as she rounds the counter, but only manages to corral himself right where she wants him.

“Jesus, Deacon would you just stop moving? You’re dripping all over.”

“This is hardly worth the fuss you’re making of it, you know.” He resigns tiredly.

She huffs and cocks her head, reaching to assess his wound. “I’d like to know what the hell possessed you to interfere, considering this g-rated filter Bill slapped you with,” she whispers. “What was the plan? Offer her a sucker from the kiddy tray?” Her fingers barely tremble as they gingerly press his cheek above the gash.

It opens like a tiny red mouth.

She squirms against the spilled contents of Lionel’s cup, nearly invisible against her black tee. Just one bullet in a barrage of uncomfortable realizations, but it’s cold and clammy, and the only one she’s currently willing to intercept. Her face crinkles behind a graffiti-fine red speckle as she squats, arm disappearing shoulder-deep into the farthest recesses of the shelf.

“Whatever was left of the primary first aid kit got used up by…yesterday. No gauze. No tape. Bupkis.” She rattles as she continues to shuffle around. “Best we can do is slap a band-aid on it till it clots.” She pops up holding an unlabeled, hot pink plastic box, cracking the lid in his direction.

“It’s deep, but it should knit up pretty fast, so whatever fate you choose…at least you shouldn’t have to wear it for long.”

Deacon should have thrown her off the second she touched him; her persistence is equal parts irritating and humiliating as he tries to escape her with spectacular failure. His eyes keep snapping to the angel, who is busy giving them all the ol’ “Razzle Dazzle”. He crinkles his nose, sending a spike of pain needling into his cheek.

Bastard.

Bill must be so god-dammed pleased with himself, setting her on him like this, knowing how it will churn his guts to be the whimpering sidekick to Lorelei’s ‘tending’ and Raz’s… “celestial charisma”. There’s no denying the atrocity of the spectacle – with the apron and the smiling… Deacon tries to comfort himself by imagining crushing Raz with a soda machine, but the bastard is a Captial ‘E’ Employee. Hobbled in both act and speech (as Lorelei so ‘helpfully’ pointed out) what is a demon to do? No matter what Deacon chooses, whether ranting or rebelling… there is no triumph over this suffering.

Which is why this punishment works so beautifully. If Deacon were on the outside looking in, he could almost admire it.

But he isn’t. Currently he’s struggling to tolerate Lorelei’s inspection rather than lock himself in the bathroom or the broom closet or stuffed inside the Forsaken deep freezer – though it would serve him right, in a twisted sort of way. Now she’s holding a box out towards him with her shirt bloodied and cheeks flecked with vamp-spewn red. He grumbles, thrusting his hand into the box blindly to pluck his fate from its vivid fuschia maw like some demented raffle prize.

“Fine. Here.” He pushes it into her hand with a soft red eye-roll. “This is absolutely ridiculous.”

She presses the bandage against his wound, punctuating the act with the soft clucking of her tongue. “I know,” she coos, withdrawing with a tender pat to his cheek, “and you’re being such a good sport about it.” There’s something disturbingly amused about the way she smiles, all wide-eyed, biting away the smile from her lips.

“There you go champ.” She pivots, beating a hasty retreat. Deacon turns to catch his reflection in Betsy’s shiny chrome. A demon stares back – adorned with a band-aid so hot-pink it hurts the eyes. He leans closer, squinting. A portion of a horned animal peeks out from one side. The rest of it spells out proudly, “POKED BY A UNICORN“.

Barely able to chew her giddy smile off at the quick, Lorelei grabs a spray bottle and pivots away. She casts a gleaming wink at an ogling Archie as she exits the brewing area, then crosses the foyer where a once supersized mob of restless consumers has now dwindled to a few zen-looking hangers on. Her brow arches at Razikiel: shirtless, tanned and tatted beneath an acid bright, undeniably 70’s apron.

“Hi I’m Lorelei.” She extends her hand in spite of there still being an unabashed enthusiast scrawling their name and number on his arm. Below several others. Her grin waxes slyly.

“Sorry I was…preoccupied earlier. Kind of a long story. Annnyway, Raz right? That’s some serious customer service talent. Kudos, but I can’t help wondering if boss lady Ava might be slightly disappointed about the slump in sales.” Her tone remains easy-going. Just a (hopefully) comradely reminder that “higher ups” exist.

Staff meetings. Ugh.

“Speaking of sales though, whatever concoction you whipped up for Dickless Van Prick back there…” she trails off, billowing her soggy shirt in front of her, “smells like it might be kick ass at compensating in future sales.” Her nose twitches curiously. “What is it, exactly? Can you make more?”

Raz takes Lorelei’s hand, which causes the dark-haired man writing on his arm with the felt pen to leave a long tangled line instead of a number.

“Hey Lorelei. Yep, Razzmatazz, that’s me.” Leaning a bare elbow on the counter, he smiles lazily at her. “Pleased to meet you. You must be new? You and that guy who is, like, totally Zen?” he tilts a head at Archie with an approving glance.

“I know Ava! Super sharp. Sharp business sense, wit, personality, claws, fashion sense. Love her shoes. I’m Increasing Net Promotion Scores Through Soft Cost Goodwill Initiatives, which Reinforce Brand Loyalty and Sell The Experience Beyond the Product.” He shrugs one brightly tattooed shoulder. “Or something. Did that work last time?” He pulls at a few blonde dreads thoughtfully. “Don’t remember.”

He reaches over to run a reassuring hand along Betsy, who emits a burble. “Trick is, coffee was always Big D’s territory. I’m more of a baker, you know? Breads, pastries, scones, cookies, that kinda thing. How’s the kitchen fared in my absence?”

“Oh that thing?” He gestures at Lorelei’s front, encompassing her shirt and its stain. “Yeah so I took some of the coffee and transubstantiated the H2O into, like, H2O-, but left the caffeine and the alkaloids and the trigonellines and whatnot. So it was like… coffee blood? As for making more…” twisting his mouth a bit to the side, he absently twirls some dreads. “It’s hard to add too much Jazz Improv into the Celestial Symphony without The Man cracking down, know what I mean? But maybe if I teamed up with the new and improved D-Can, we could recreate… well, we’d need an espresso machine that could, like, do magic?” He grins. “What are the odds we’ve got that?”

Lorelei’s grin widens and cools almost imperceptibly.

“The kitchen’s faring just fine. Primarily been my territory since I started working here three years back. Made a deal with a devil, so to speak.” Her head tilts in Deacon’s direction. Her tone remains particularly neighbourly.

“And since you’re admittedly weak on the espresso machine, maybe you should spend a little more quality time with it, see for yourself if it’s magical or not.” She adds with a shrug. “Pretty sure the last one was.”

At that she disengages, turning to retrieve an empty dish tub from beside the steamer. Still smiling she steps lively from one section to the next, enthusiastically gathering sludge-filled cups and nearly wiping the veneer clean off the tabletops.

Why’d she even bother mentioning the duration of her employment anyway? Seems like time’s kind of lost on “Razzmatazz”. Among other things. Like accountability.

Could Ava actually have been sold on that line of a-grade, buzzword-riddled bullshit? But if he really is capable of smooth talking the bosses as well as he did the crowd just now, then shouldn’t she just plain be happy he’s on board? And why the hell is she suddenly feeling so possessive of kitchen duties, anyway? Who really cares if Smarty McFly wants to take it over? Great! Maybe she can sleep in for a fucking change. She can always get her baking fix in at home.

She’s so busy inwardly bristling that she doesn’t have room to question why she feels compelled to stop and empty all the cup contents into Brains’ notably thirsty soil.

Whatever. It’s just a stupid shithole minimum wage job anyway.

Just a stupid job.

Raz’s brow furrows a bit as Lorelei seems to depart the conversation just as things were getting interesting. But his tugging on his dreads is remind him of something…

Oh yeah, when Ava had pulled out a handful dragging him by his hair to the register, to show him what was the most important thing in the shop. How has he forgotten that?

“Riiight the handful of quaaludes right after,” he nods sagely, mystery solved. “The thing is, it’s about Human Nature. Marketing lingo aside, and I do kinda regret my time in the late 80s on Wall Street, really wasn’t my scene you know, humans aren’t, like, rational. They’ll look at a bogus product but if they like the feeling around it they’ll buy. Or like, brand loyalty isn’t about the thing usually, it’s the experience. And that’s how you get repeaters. She at least left me the rest of my hair after that.”

He leans back and looks upside-down at Archie, who is nearby. “You are a good listener man, I appreciate that.”

Gradually collecting some of the sludge cups, he continues. “Humans are emotional when you think they should be rational, then instinctual when you think they will be emotional, then they’re rational when you think they’d be instinctual. It’s nuts! It’s awesome! They’re a chaotic mess, but there are, like, ways to predict the chaos? I mean even if you have something that tastes like…” he dips a finger in one of the cups and licks off some of the ooze.

And freezes. As he considers the flavor.

“…tastes like Despair, they’ll buy if they like the feelings around it. Pet rocks man, pet rocks! I was working on a treatise for the Powers That Be about how to really market religion. I think it would have worked regardless of the product! But then I totally lost it at my man L. Ron Hubbard’s house party back in the day.” He shakes his head glumly. “Guy said he never found it, and you know how annoying it is to re-write something you’ve already written?”

“Starbucks man. They got a good product, but people go for the experience of the product and the place. They know what to expect, and they like it, which is why they come back. Zen of coffee. Not that we should be Starbucks,. But I do wonder, which Side runs them, eh?”

A semblance of normalcy has returned since Bill’s sudden and timely appearance, but Archie didn’t understand what was going on in the first place. Even though Archie’s brain is still working. A working brain for Archie is problem.

Don’t make the boss mad, clean up the glass Archie’s own voice intones inside his head.

Instead he stands, drool escaping one corner of his rotten mouth, staring at Raz. Only occasionally bending down to pick up small shards of glass with un-dexterous fingers, adding to the small pile in his four fingered hand.

It seems like Raz hasn’t stopped talking. And now he’s talking to him. A lot of words, all directed at Archie. A lot of attention, albeit half paid, directed at Archie.

DO YOUR JOB! Archie’s brain screams.

Archie isn’t listening to his brain right now. He’s listening to Raz. He’s not comprehending the words Raz is saying, but he’s listening to the sounds. His zombie self is wondering if Raz’s brain is tasty. His zombie self is considering jumping the counter and ripping into Raz’s skull to find out.

You can’t eat your friends. So let it go and DO YOUR JOB

But Archie’s rational human voice is fading in his own mind, and his stomach is growling. One function of the living that doesn’t change after becoming one of the undead. The zombipens effects are done. Archie starts shambling towards the counter, closer to what could be the tastiest thing he has ever eaten.

No! What am I doing? STOP. IT.

But his thoughts are beginning to sound like static, ideas behind a filmy curtain ten miles away.

Archie takes another step, glass crunching underfoot. A low moan escapes his mouth, he begins to reach forward with his empty hand…

Oh. Fuck it all He mutters inside his own head as he uses the last of his cognizant strength to pull his full hand to his mouth, filling it with small shards of glass.

Archie is shocked back to normal. Whatever that means. But… why’d he do that? He can’t remember. He crunches. And crunches. The glass decimating his already decayed mouth. It doesn’t hurt . It feels… weird. Like ice that just wont melt. His stomach isn’t rumbling anymore.

Archie shrugs, and reaches for the forgotten broom and dust pan. Glass isn’t that tasty, he should probably just clean it up instead.