Somewhere, or maybe it’s everywhere, in a Starbucks lurks Old Scratch himself.
He’s sitting there wearing designer jeans, a Geoffery Beane shirt, a Jerry Garcia tie and sipping a Venti double-shot latte with two pumps of caramel. You know this because he ordered it once, took a sip and then loudly proclaimed to the entire establishment that it wasn’t right.
The baristas were happy to fix it for him.
After declaring it “close enough” he lectured the poor bastard (and everyone within earshot) of how he makes it better at home with his extremely expensive espresso machine (imported from Italy, naturally).
After his soliloquy, Lucifer takes another sip, still mumbling to himself about the low standards to which Starbucks has sunk.
You can hear the clip-clop of his cloven hooves as he saunters, smugly self-satisfied towards the table where he has set up his “workstation.”
He’s a writer.
You know this because he’s mentioned it to no one in particular several times that he is “on deadline”.
Another sip on the complicated beverage followed by a custom smooth-jazz ringtone. The Old One reaches into his jacket pocket, looks down his nose at the number and rolls his eyes in manner that would make Paris Hilton blush with modesty.
There is no salutation, no “hello”, just a torrent of obscenities woven throughout the retelling of the same point over and over again to the poor sap on the other end of the line who it seems doesn’t “understand his position.” Beelzebub’s complete and disregard for the crowd in the cafe is a sight to behold. Everyone stares, part in awe and part in disgust, at the acute sociopathic behavior.
Why do we let people act like this? Where do they get the idea that it’s okay? Where did it all go so wrong? I implore you gentle reader, rise up. When you encounter Satan in a Starbucks, tell him to shut the f@ck up.