“I am the foretold coming of Satan,” I said calmly to the Starbucks barista. “By my unholy powers, I command thee to make my spiced latte with those delicious Oreo crumbs.”
“But that’s a seasonal drink!” the barista cried.
“I will SACRIFICE thee to the alter of Baal!” I said. Then I was rudely interrupted by a blond bombshell standing in line. I vaguely recognized her.
“James!” she said. “Long time no see!”
“Susan? How have you been?” I ask. I lower the switchblade from the barista’s throat and straighten his hair. “Starbucks. You always have to go the extra mile to get what you want, am I right?”
“Totally!” Susan said. “What have you been up to these days?”
“Oh you know, this and that. A little bit of this and a little bit of that. Just a bunch of what not and what have you.”
“That’s great! It’s so sad we lost touch after high school.”
“Oh yeah. High school. I didn’t graduate if I remember correctly.”
The hillsides weren’t a blazing inferno that day and the air quality was good so we sat outside under the fair California sun. When the barista delivered our coffee, his pants were wet and he wouldn’t make eye contact. “Enjoy your coffee,” he said and quickly rushed away. Susan picked her cup up and began blowing away the steam. “Are you seeing anyone at the moment?” she casually asks.
“Seeing anyone?” I look around. “I see a lot of people.”
“I mean, are you in a relationship?”
“Oh.” I thought for a moment. “Yeah, I’m in a few. I’ve got my roommate Vic. He’s Scottish and I can’t understand what he’s saying most times. Then I got my coworker Dale. But he’ll probably be dead soon from cirrhosis. My mom of course is still alive and living with emphysema. She’s got a stoma in her throat. Those are the only relationships I’ve got if you want to call them that. Mostly I’m a loner. I drive down interstates most days and pick up hitchhikers. Then I’ll take them down backroads through the hills with an open gas can and a match and tell them that god has abandoned us and all his children so maybe we should end it all right here in a massive fireball because life holds no meaning. But that’s about it.”
“So you don’t have a girlfriend?”
“Girlfriend? No. I’ve definitely have had sex before but usually I meander around skid row with a bottle of whiskey and start crying in the arms of a homeless street prostitute. That’s about as intimate as I get with a girl.”
“I see,” says Susan as she lights a cigarette. She digs through her purse before pulling out a business card. “Give me a call sometime. I’m not hard to find.”
I look at the card. Susan Buchetti: “Fixer”.
“See you around,” she says. Then she fades off into the crowd.
But I knew what this was about. She wasn’t fooling anyone. I’ve fallen for this scam a million times: I call her up, meet her in North Hollywood, and next thing I know I’m in a bathtub filled with ice and my vital organs are missing. I tore up her business card and throw the shreds on the ground.
The Internet Ruined Everything 