Time me!
Out of context: Reply #94
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"Iced... espresso."
The barista looks at me, and his chin quivers.
"Sir, we don't put ice in our espresso. It ruins the flavor of the..."
Before he can finish his sentence I jam the barrel of my shotgun into his mouth, the metal clicking against his tooth enamel.
"Now, I want... an espresso... but I want it iced. It's hot out."
Tears well up in the corners of his eyes. I can see that his desire to keep his cerebral cortex is conflicting with pre-programmed store policy and his barista integrity.
An old lady pipes up from the line, "You leave him alone you monster!"
Without looking her way I blow a hole in her giant church hat with the other shotgun. Feathers spray out and all over the couple that were enjoying the wireless connection before I came in.
"Son, you have three seconds to flip the switch on that machine, or your buddy there will be toothbrushing your spine from the pour spout through the next week." I nod to the other barista.
"Ralph, just make him the goddamn iced espresso."
"Mutttt... sheresh no shush shing ash a ished eshpresshh..."
Click! The hammer slams down and I realize the barrel in the automatic shotgun is empty. Slightly confounded, I yank the barrel out of the barrista's mouth and fish around in my coat for more ammunition. Under his "Bean Universe" smock, I can see his knees are struggling to keep him standing, and a damp spot appears in the shoddy silkscreening of the cartoon coffee bean with the mickey mouse gloves.
"Oh God! Ohgodohgodohgod! Vince, I don't want to die!"
Vince grabs ralph by the collar and sits him down against the steel hermetically sealed refrigerator cabinet behind the counter.
"Okay! Okay Ralph just sit here I will deal with it."
When Vince turns to me I have a freshly loaded shotgun pointed at his dome.
"Let's start over shal we?"
Vince's eye twitches, and he stutters out his greeting, "W-welcome to Bean Universe, my name is Vince. I'll be helping you with your order today. Can I interest you in a sample of..."
Click. I thumb the hammer back.
"Oh... right. What can I get for you today?"
"I want an iced espresso."
I can see that vince is struggling with the order. He braces his hands against the counter and struggles to repeat the order.
"Iced... (twitch) espresso... (twitch)."
"That's right, chief."
"What size would you like, sir?"
"A big one."
"Sir we have Grandisimo, Moto Grandisimo and Extrimioso."
Vince points to the board behind him, still looking cross-eyed at the end of the barrel. Tacked to the cork menu are cut-out silhouettes of coffee cups, each with italian mumbo-jumbo scrawled in scripted flourish across them.
"A big one." I repeat. My answer registers with Vince and he gets to work, running the slurping espresso machine deftly. Before I know it, one teeming cup of espresso is before me atop a saucer.
"Vince," I say. "Aren't you forgetting something?"
"Sir, please... the flavor... I..." His eyes are watering up.
"The ice, Vince."
Nodding, he reaches into the hermetically sealed refrigerator and scoops out two well-formed ice cubes. Before plopping them in the cup, he looks to me once more, hoping, praying I might change my mind. No dice. The dice plop in, cracking and squeaking in the espresso as they float back to the surface.
"Now drink it." I say.
"Buh...bubbbbbbut..."
"Drink it." I repeat myself. I press the barrel into Vince's chest, bullying him.
Suddenly there is a glint in Vince's eye, and he looks past me. Before thinking I smash him in the face with the bitt of the gun and leap over the counter.
"POLICE! EVERYONE DROP TO THE FLOOR!"
An explosion of gunfire erupts over the screams of customers. I duck below the sheet metal counter and fire blindly over the top of it as bullets shatter the crockery and shelves above me. Shards of ceramic and glass rain down about me. I fire twice more and peer underneath the counter.
The fat guy on the rascal lost control of the motor and was accellerating across the shop, screaming and jerking the joystick futiley before knocking over a table with a laptop on it. Just beyond, I can see the line of SWAT officers behind their acrylic body shields stacking up behind the lip of the window, preparing to enter.
Then a canister comes clattering through the door. Grenade? Tear gas? It cracks open, and breakdances atop the tile floor as a vapor hisses forcefully out of the top of it. Shit! I need to get out! After emptying barrels several more times at the door, I hustle, arm over arm, and somersault into the managers office.