• He was bored. Incredibly, undeniably, and completely bored. He stood there at the cash register with his head propped up on his arm, leaning on the counter. He started crushing a biscotti absent mindedly. Some of his nearly-black, dark red hair hung limply in his face.

    Clickclickclick…clickclick…click….

    They were here every night at the Coffee Corner, those two. Each was huddled in front of their own laptop, probably soaking in some kind of radiation from the screen. He had the late shift as well, this is early shift. All in the nighttime hours. He stared at them with a mild loathing (as if they would notice). Exhibit A: the middle-aged office-minded husband. You couldn't really tack the name of father to him, seeing as though he nearly lived in the Coffee Corner. Always on his laptop, working away at expense reports, at spread sheets, pouring expresso after expresso down his gullet. One could nearly watch as his hairline receded while he worked around to clock to earn money to support the family he barely saw. Imbecile.

    …clickclick….

    Then there was Exhibit B: the tragically misunderstood adolescent. This one's hair was a marvel, too. It changed from one color to the next, sometimes from day to day. Nothing on his lithe frame wasn't scene. He sniffled from time to time, laughed at nonsense, then left at 11:30 PM. Probably done with his MySpace or angsty poetry. So eventually he was only left with one pitter patter of laptop keys. It was about that time now, 1:15 AM. They wouldn't have any more customers until maybe five or six, save the occasional college kid after a long bout of procrastination.

    He had nothing to do. Well, except make yet another triple-shot expresso. They should just save themselves the time and effort by connecting him directly to the expresso machine.

    If only something interesting would happen.

    RINGRING! SLAM!

    His head fell on the table. He groaned slightly, straightening up. Well, it was good to have a customer, right? He rubbed an eye, booting up the register.

    "Hm, welcome to the Coffee Corner. Is there anything I can get you?" he mumbled, still partially in his bored daze. He hadn't really even looked to whoever stood in front of him.

    A man's voice responded with slight hesitance. "Ah, well, the 24/7 is under renovation because of that fire… I dunno what's good here. Do you have any Brainfreezies?"

    The cashier blinked, finally looking at the customer. The man was taller than he was, certainly, but he was so incredibly skeletal. He had enormous bags under wide, surveying eyes. A baggy black trench coat covered most of his frame, but he could see a fraction of his shirt. It had a weird looking design, a "Z" followed by a question mark, enclosed in brackets. What the ********?

    "Sir, we don't sell Brainfreezies. This is a coffee shop. It's called Coffee Corner. We just sell coffee and coffee paraphernalia." He tried speaking slowly, hoping that he didn't have some druggie on his hands. Those people didn't need to be strung up on coffee, too.

    His dark eyes narrowed, almost as black as coals. The man could've sworn he saw the customer's hand twitch, as if he intended on grabbing something.

    The cashier sighed, not too bothered about his gaze. "Well, if you like sweet, icy stuff, you could try our FruitCoolas. I guess that's the next best thing."

    There was a long, pause. The cashier uncomfortably shifted his weight from his left to right foot as he wasn't sure what exactly was on this weirdo's agenda. It wasn't just that he kept on staring, but the sheer creepiness. His hand made a move for his pocket, the cashier's body tensing at once. He dug around for a moment, only to retrieve a wallet. Well, now he felt dumb.

    "Hm, I'll take a cherry one. And a chocolate muffin." He eyed it from the display case; it was the last one there.

    The cashier punched a few buttons on the register. "That's $4.57, please."

    The man's eyebrow just twitched a little. He threw a five onto the counter, stuffing his wallet back into his pocket. He looked around apprehensively.

    "Hey," the cashier said suddenly, making the guy's change. "What does that design on your shirt mean? It's a little wacky-looking."

    It was as if he'd called the guy's mother a whore. His fists balled up, trembling slightly. His dark eyes widened, nearly filled with shock. Too bad it wasn't, though; fury reigned supreme.

    "What…did you say?" He could hear the floodgates crumble.

    "Uh…" Why the heck not? He'd push his luck. "I said it was wacky. I don't know what it means, really."

    Faster than he could say the ingredients of a Big Mac, the dark customer leaped onto the countertop. He grabbed the cashier's uniform shirt in a death grip with his twiggy fingers. He could feel his hot breath on his face, the customer's eyes crazed.

    "YOU'RE JUST ANOTHER ONE OF THOSE JERKS WHO THINK THEY'RE COOL JUST TO WORK IN A CRAPPY COFFEE SHOP! IN ORDER TO KEEP YOUR OWN FRAGILE SENSE OF ACCOMPLISHMENT, YOU DECIDE TO DEGRADE OTHERS, HUH? WELL, I'VE GONE ALL DAY PRETTY WELL UNTIL I CAME IN HERE! NOT ONLY DO YOU NOT HAVE ANY FREAKING BRAINFREEZIES, BUT YOU HAVE THE AUDACITY TO CALL MY SHIRT WACKY? ARE YOU ENJOYING THE SICK PLEASURE YOU GET OUT OF THIS? A DAY DOESN'T GO BY WHEN I'M NOT JUDGED BY HOW I LOOK, AND YOU SUCCESSFULLY KEPT THAT TREND RUNNING STRONG. IT'S BECAUSE I'M DIFFERENT FROM YOU, ISN'T IT? GODDANGIT, ANSWER ME!"

    The cashier barely had any time to even formulate a logical thought in his head before he was thrown to the ground. The solid tile flooring knocked him out cold when the back of his head made contact....