Astaroth
[*screaming into the void intensifies*]
Original poster
STAFF MEMBER
DONATING MEMBER
FOLKLORE MEMBER
- Invitation Status
- Not accepting invites at this time
- Posting Speed
- Speed of Light
- Slow As Molasses
- Online Availability
- It varies a lot depending on my schedule, unfortunately.
- Writing Levels
- Advanced
- Adaptable
- Preferred Character Gender
- Primarily Prefer Male
- Genres
- Psychological horror
Body horror
Supernatural
Giallo
Splatterpunk
Dark fantasy
Historical
Low fantasy
Magipunk
Weird West
Noir
Thriller
Gothic horror
Southern Gothic
Gaslamp fantasy
Cyberpunk
Space saga
Clockpunk
Space Western
Space opera
Paranormal
Modern fantasy
Dieselpunk
Post-Apocalyptic
Crime drama
Medieval fantasy
"Excuse me, but this is not what I ordered."
Nash lifted his head and craned his neck to meet the woman's eyes.
"You ordered the Magimocha Delite," he reminded her with a bright smile, jerking his thumb over his shoulder at the chalkboard menu. "With extra foam. This is the Magimocha Delite."
"I ordered a mocha with skim milk," she replied slowly. She was staring at him the way Nash saw people stare at slow children because they thought eye contact would fix a lifetime of learning disabilities. "This doesn't look like a mocha. It's pink."
"Yeah. A Magimocha Delite," repeated Nash. He wiped his hands on his apron before he started counting out the beans for a Demonspresso. "We use fairy milk instead of skim. It's the same amount of fat and easier to get."
"Fairy milk?! Ew!"
Nash ducked, tipping the beans into the hand grinder. A coffee cup hit the wall behind him with a thud and a gush. Pink foam streaked down across the wall and dribbled onto the plastic cutlery.
"No refunds!" he added, and was rewarded with an outraged huff and the clack of high heels stomping away. He understood that, at least. It was a really shitty policy. But the Agency already gave an employee markdown to the majority of his customer base... so if Nash wanted to make any money on a barista salary, refunds had to be off the menu.
Sometimes, it really sucked being the guy who sold coffee to a top-secret organization. Talk about a thankless job. Nash was important, dammit. Without their coffee, would these people save the world? No. No, they would not.
The coast was probably clear. Nash scrambled back to his feet.
Nash lifted his head and craned his neck to meet the woman's eyes.
"You ordered the Magimocha Delite," he reminded her with a bright smile, jerking his thumb over his shoulder at the chalkboard menu. "With extra foam. This is the Magimocha Delite."
"I ordered a mocha with skim milk," she replied slowly. She was staring at him the way Nash saw people stare at slow children because they thought eye contact would fix a lifetime of learning disabilities. "This doesn't look like a mocha. It's pink."
"Yeah. A Magimocha Delite," repeated Nash. He wiped his hands on his apron before he started counting out the beans for a Demonspresso. "We use fairy milk instead of skim. It's the same amount of fat and easier to get."
"Fairy milk?! Ew!"
Nash ducked, tipping the beans into the hand grinder. A coffee cup hit the wall behind him with a thud and a gush. Pink foam streaked down across the wall and dribbled onto the plastic cutlery.
"No refunds!" he added, and was rewarded with an outraged huff and the clack of high heels stomping away. He understood that, at least. It was a really shitty policy. But the Agency already gave an employee markdown to the majority of his customer base... so if Nash wanted to make any money on a barista salary, refunds had to be off the menu.
Sometimes, it really sucked being the guy who sold coffee to a top-secret organization. Talk about a thankless job. Nash was important, dammit. Without their coffee, would these people save the world? No. No, they would not.
The coast was probably clear. Nash scrambled back to his feet.