Caffeine and Magix

IT’S TIME (I’ve literally been waiting for this moment for a week)

The coffee shop is nearly empty, patrons heading home to dinner and family and sleep. The parking lot outside is quiet and dark, cars silently gliding towards the road, sweeping their headlights briefly over the store front before sliding away. The baristas are more often in the break room than behind the counter, scheduling next week’s shifts and discussing how exactly they’re going to distribute the closing tasks today. They know that the customers who are left are fine, fresh refills in their cups and the knowledge that another is but a holler away.

The author has been observing the slow trickle of people for a while now, casually flipping between the novel she’s supposed to be writing, a bullet point list of interesting facial features, and a crockpot recipe she’s trying to convince herself she really wants to try.

(She does not know why she think she should enjoy crockpot shepherd’s pie. She just knows that she should enjoy it.)

She is one of three customers left in the store. There is a man she’s affectionately named “The Wizard” for his tendency to drape his coat over his shoulders like a cape. He is huddled over his tablet and might be near tears as he scribbles something out. The other customer is a woman the author knows quite well, but will not acknowledge. It is not because of her needle-like teeth or the script written carefully across her shirt or even because of the off-putting cackle the woman seems fond of.

It is because there is some trouble the author knows she should not engage.

So she ignores the woman-who-will-not-be-named and focuses on her computer.

It’s as she’s typing out “charming slouch, neck extended, a home out of his spine” and “add twice amount of onion” that she gets the notification.

The notification.

“Oh fuck,” says the author. She has not prepared for this at all. (This is pretending that she would have prepared for it with prior warning.)

(She would not have.)

She looks up from her computer as the coffee shop’s doors open, admitting a man in a three piece suit. He appears to be in his forties, hair gently parted, and warm laugh lines around his eyes. He does not look at her, instead heading to the counter to order.

She frantically closes Tumblr, Facebook, Instagram, Archiveofourown, Imgur, Reddit, Wattpad, six PDFs, two Wikipedia pages, and the recipe blog. Then, deciding that looks too suspicious, she pulls Tumblr back up. It loads on her activity page where the damning notification screams at her.

6,666 Total Followers

When the man turns towards her, fresh coffee in his hands, he is not the same man who walked in. This time he appears ageless, chin narrowing into a sharp point, eyes peering hawkishly at her from underneath a heavy, brunette fringe.

“Good evening,” says Satan.

“I’m ready for my performance review,” the author says, lying through her teeth. “So ready to–to perform.”

“You don’t work for me,” Satan says, eyes narrowing. “You know that, right?”

“Ha ha,” says the author. (She just sort of assumed, and isn’t that embarassing?) “So this isn’t a performance review?”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Satan says. He is now a rather large man, bald except for a thick, bushy mustache. He pulls a black, leather portfolio from thin air. “You finally meet our minimum requirements. This is an interview.”

“Oh,” the author says. This is a bit of a relief. “Oh, um, no– no, thank you. I sort of have a job? Two in fact, so–you know. Not really, um, looking.”

From the other side of the shop, the woman with the needle teeth cackles. The author hopes she is cold in her t-shirt and leggings. She hopes the woman is freezing.

Satan ignores her and opens the portfolio. Since he–she is now an eighty-year-old woman, she pulls out a pair of spectacles. “Some very interesting things in here. Megan of Kallay, her life is rather dismal. And I have to say that some of your potential future colleagues love Gina. Big fans.”

“Thank you,” the author says when it becomes apparent Satan will not continue until she does. “That’s…good to know?”

Satan nods, long hair sliding over his shoulders. He now looks a bit like the author’s seventh grade math teacher. The author thinks he might be messing with her. “Yes, yes, there are a few other stories, of course, but what really interests us are the comments. Take this one, for example, this person claims to be literally dying after reading your work.” He takes off his granny spectacles to look at the author with pale red eyes. “We like that. We like that a lot.”

“Oh,” the author says. She realizes Satan is not familiar with tumblr hyperbole. “Oh, noooo… that’s not–”

“But,” Satan continues, steam-rolling over her. His hands are chubby and round as he turns a page in the portfolio, pressing full lips together as he reads. “Your ratio of alive to dead characters is…not good. That needs improvement. People seem to enjoy this supernatural school…have you considered how you’re going to kill off this Sam character? Or this ‘Pet Monsters’ one. Which pet will die?”

The author tries to think of an answer that won’t offend Satan. She doesn’t think he really gets it. The whole point is that they don’t die, even when people want them too. She takes a sip of her cold coffee and stalls.

“Well,” Satan says, “no matter. We have advisers for that sort of thing, if we decide to hire you, you’ll be meeting with them.” He turns another page. “Now. Your references.”

The author blinks. “My references?” She’s got one from when she was a lifeguard, one from when she worked at a craft store, one from–

Satan holds up a blank page in between two long, sharp nails. “This is blank. So obviously we can’t have that. Are there any you’d like to share now?”

“What kind of references?” she asks. “Because, like, I only have professional ones?”

Satan tsks. “No, those won’t do. We require something more personal. Anecdotes from your victims, testimonials from your cohorts, that sort of thing.”

She hesitates. “I don’t really have any–any victims–”

“Oh, don’t be modest!” the woman with needle teeth says. The author jumps; she hadn’t heard the woman come up to the table. The woman grins at Satan and yanks up a chair, spinning it so she’s sitting backwards, head resting on the back. “I assure you, Prince of Darkness, I have been completely victimized by this lady.”

Satan raises an eyebrow. “And you are…?”

“Jenny,” Jenny says. She sticks her hand out and shakes Satan’s before he offers it. “Time Gremlin. Nice to meet you.” She wipes her hand on her leggings obviously, still making eye contact.

Satan seems…charmed?

“Please, Jenny,” Satan says, “tell me all about it.”

“No,” the author says, “no, no, I haven’t done anything to–”

“It all started when I was a baby,” Jenny says mournfully. “There was a prophecy, you see, saying that one day I would kill her. She couldn’t have that, you know? So she left me this scar.” Jenny dramatically flips her black hair away from her face to show off smooth skin. “Disfiguring isn’t it?”

“That’s– that’s the beginning of Harry Potter,” the author sputters. “And there’s clearly no scar!”

“Sh,” Satan says, “your victim is speaking.” He leans forward, propping his chin up with one hand. “Go on.”

Jenny grins, needle-like teeth glinting in the low lighting. “Right, so then I turned eleven and I got accepted into a–”

The author puts her head down on the table and pretends that she has died.