A pised off Demon

I rasped in retort and consumed my caffeine, guessing I could deal with anything so long as the mochas kept arriving. Moreover, this precisely couldn't be as terrible as the major resists.The café perhaps did no business this time of day.

I was wrong. Minutes after opening, we had a line of five people.

"Large latte," I reiterated back to my initial client, carefully jabbing in the data.

"Already got it," Bruce told me, commencing the beverage before I even had an opportunity to tag the cup. I cheerfully grabbed the woman's money and moved on to my successive order.

"A vast skinny mocha."

"Skinny's only another word for nonfat, Katharina."

I scrawled NF on the mug. No troubles. We could do this. The following customer walked up and gazed at me,

presently overwhelmed. Arriving to her senses, she wiggled her head and blab a storm of orders.

"I need one small bubble coffee, one huge nonfat vanilla latte, one small dual cappuccino, and one vast decaf latte."

Presently I felt mesmerized. How had she memorized all those? And certainly, who ordered drip anymore?

On and on the dawn got on, and despite my qualms, I quickly felt myself perking up and liking the ordeal. I couldn't help it. It was how I labored, how I hauled myself through life.

I loved trying recent things—even something as dull as ringing up espresso. People could be ridiculous, clearly, but I enjoyed toiling with the public most of the time. It was how I had ended up in client aid.

And once I overcame my somnolence, my hereditary succubus charisma chipped in. I evolved the genius of my own special phase exhibit, bantering and toying with relief. When incorporated with the Frank-induced allure, I became absolute irresistible.

While this did effect in an amount of proffered dates and pickup lines, it similarly redeemed me from the repercussions of any faults. My clients found no awry with me.

"That's all right, sweetie," one aged woman convinced me upon realizing I'd accidentally ordered her an enormous

cinnamon mocha instead of a nonfat, decaf latte. "I absolutely want to diverge into fresh drinks anyway."

I beamed back winningly, wishing she wasn't diabetic. Later on, a gentleman rose up holding up a portrait of Gabriel

Loftbrok's The Glasgow Pact. It was the initial indication I'd glimpsed of tonight's critical event.

"Are you going to the signing?" I inquired as I rang up his tea. Bleh. Caffeine-free.

He scanned me for a pregnant moment, and I propped myself for a pass.

Instead the gentleman mumbled mildly, "Yeah, I'll be there." "Well, make sure you compose credible queries for him.

Don't inquire the same ones everyone else does." "What do you mean?"

"Oh, you know, the normal. 'Where do you fetch your opinions from?' and 'Are Cady and O'Neill ever going to get together?'"

The guy contemplated this as I formulated alteration. He was cute, in a ragged kind of way. He had brown hair with a reddish-gold glint to it, let out glint being more apparent in the shade of facial hair traversing his lower countenance.

I couldn't quite decide if he'd deliberately developed a beard or simply neglected to trim. Whatever it was, it had developed in more or less evenly and, when incorporated with the Pink Floyd T-shirt he sported, illustrated the portrait of a kind of hippie-lumberjack.

"I don't reckon the 'usual questions' make them any slight meaningful to the one performing the asking," he agreed at last, appearing nervous about opposing me. "To a fan, each query is modern and unique."

He strode aside so I could wait on another client. I proceeded the dialogue as I received the successive order, unwilling to pass up the chance to communicate Gabriel Loftbrok intelligently.

"Forget the enthusiasts. What about poor Gabriel Loftbrok? He possibly wishes to jab himself each time he earns one of

those."

"'Impale' is sort of a powerful word, don't you think?" "Absolutely not. The gentleman's brilliant. Heeding ludicrous

questions must exhaust him to tears."

A bemused smile dabbled across the man's maw, and his fixed brown eyes examined me carefully.

When he felt he was glancing so openly, he looked away, uncomfortable. "No. If he's out touring, he oversees about his enthusiasts. He doesn't heed the repetitious questions."

"He's not out voyaging for benevolence. He's out touring because the publicists at his publishing cottage are making him tour," I disputed. "Which is moreover a waste of time, by the way."

He dared a glance back at me. "Touring is? You don't wish to confront him?"

"I—well, yes, of course I do. It's simply, that…okay. Look, don't get me immoral. I worship the ground this guy walks on. I'm delighted to confront him tonight.

I'm dying to meet him tonight. If he preferred to take me off and make me his love slave, I'd do it, so long as I received advance copies of his publications.

But this voyaging thing…it takes time. Time that would be politely consumed composing the next publication. I mean, haven't you noticed how long his books take to come out?"

"Yeah. I've noticed."

Just then, a previous client returned, protesting he'd received caramel syrup instead of caramel sauce. Whatever that meant.

I offered a rare smiles and soft apologies, and he soon didn't care about the caramel sauce or anything else. By the time he evacuated my record, the Loftbrok fan guy has left too.

When I ultimately completed my shift around five, Wilson attained to meet me.

"I heeded some fascinating things about your performance up here."

"I learn delightful things about your 'performance' all the time, Wilson, but you don't hear me making fun about

it."

He bandied with me a little more and ultimately released me to get ready for the signing, but not before I'd made him lowly realize how much he owed me for my compassion today. Between him and Hugh, I was accruing favors all over the spot.

I virtually rode the two blocks home, nervous to clasp some dinner and figure out what I liked to wear. My joy was rising. In an hour or so, I'd be coming upon my all-time special writer.

Could life get any better? Rumbling to myself, I took the stairs two at a time and generated my keys with a flourish that only I knew or respected.

As I unlocked the door, a hand unexpectedly yanked me and snatched me roughly inward, into the dusk of my apartment. I shrieked in shock and panic as I was shoved up against the door, blasting it shut.

The glow blaze on abruptly and suddenly, and the pale scent of sulfur drifted through the atmosphere.

Although the radiance made me wince, I could glimpse well enough to comprehend what was happening.

Hades hath no anger like a pissed-off demon.