What Would Satan Do_ - Anthony Miller [11]
“You,” said the barista, “need to figure out who you are and what you want.”
Liam glanced at the coffee in his one hand and the credit card receipt in the other. “I think you already did that.”
“You’re lacking in focus, my friend,” said the little man. He squinted at Liam with hard, wizened eyes. “You don’t want to run out of time.”
“What?”
Mr. Duong, however, had moved on to the next customer.
Liam took his coffee and turned to leave, only to find himself face-to-face with His Smurfiness.
“Hi,” said Ringo.
Liam stared, wide eyed. “Oh…” he said. The rest of the words dallied in his parietal lobe, but then he was granted a second reprieve.
“Uh ... excuse me!” said the insectoid hottie.
Liam glanced around for a second before realizing that she was talking to him. He was apparently blocking her path to the shop’s supply of straws, napkins, and pre-packaged petroleum by-product sweeteners. He reveled for a moment in the mild irony of a plasticky, bitchy young woman yatching her way over to a rack of artificial sweeteners, but then she stamped her foot to show she meant business.
“Uh!” she said, shooing him with her phone. “Get out of the way!” He stepped back, and she strode past him, muttering a not-at-all-quiet and very distinct, “Freak!” as she passed.
There was a popping sound, and the woman yelped and jumped back as she tossed her now-flaming phone to the ground. She did not drop her beverage, however, opting instead to demonstrate why it is inadvisable to engage in acrobatic activities or otherwise leap about with hot coffee in hand. Most of the contents of her cup slopped down the front of her tank top. This might have elicited a few murmurs of appreciation from the members of the young male demographic present in the coffee shop, but there wasn’t time. The young woman had hardly finished spilling coffee all over herself when she slipped on the small amount of liquid she hadn’t actually managed to pour on her shirt, and toppled over backward on to the floor.
“Huh,” said Liam, regarding the woman with a kind of distant, academic interest.
He and the rest of the patrons watched as she tried a couple of times to stand, but slipped repeatedly, unable to find any solid footing among the puddles of expensive and complex beverage. Nobody moved to help her, and it seemed like a week passed before she finally stopped flopping all over the place and was finally able to pick her coffee- and dust-bunny-covered self up off the floor.
She stood for a moment, fuming, her fists balled. “Hmmph!” she said, and stormed out of the coffee shop.
“Huh,” said Liam again, leaning over to pick up the phone, which was still flaming merrily to itself. He held it up and looked at it, and the flame went out. “Huh,” he said, one more time – for good measure. He glanced around to demonstrate that he was just as surprised by this as everyone else. Nobody seemed very interested though, so he tossed the phone into a waste bin.
He glanced around a final time, took his coffee, and left.
Chapter 5. Where You Can Stick that Parking Permit
The Devil ranted and muttered to himself as he stomped his way down the stairs, cursing the stupid, indecisive lady for making him shoot her into space.
There it was. His car. A breathtaking jewel that glittered among the exposed pipes, the steamy underground air, and the dank smells of the garage. He clicked the little beeper thingy to unlock it, slithered into the seat, and stabbed a finger at the button labeled, “Start.”
Ordinary engines start up by turning over once or twice, and come to life with a little bit of a wheeze that turns into a throat-clearing that eventually settles into a quiet hum. The engine of a Lamborghini, however, is not ordinary. It’s more like an enraged bull – an enraged bull who’s been poked, prodded, and generally tormented by a matador, and then fed amphetamines and stuffed into a small box. Even the Devil felt a little shiver as the car came to life.
Satan backed out of