C-CUTC-004
Barista: Jericho Myerscough
Date: Dec-6-2019
Receipt: C-CUTC-004
Subject: Clean Up
The 8-Ball still ain’t said shit to me. You don’t reckon it’s broke, do you? Couldn’t be—nah. Thing’s ancient █████. ███ ████ ██ ████ █████. Made of some metal I ain’t never been able to place. Always cold—always sapping my heat. Takes and takes and takes, but won’t even give me a vague dismissal. Just silence.
So, I figured—maybe the ██████ flames’d heat the thing back up. Not often you get to muck about with ██████ flames, after all.
Didn’t go near the corpse, though. Stuck to the front-end diner for the most part. More than enough ██████ flame still clinging to what was left of it to get a feel. Stood at the edge of what used to be the front counter, boots grinding against charred tile, stomach twisting into knots worse than a week without the Fairy. Turned the 8-Ball over in my palm. Just once.
…Still nothing.
Jules, Trav, and Jackie headed into the back to help X-Ray and the Juliettes start clearing up, which left me and Alex alone with the Zulu twins—Solomon and Magogo. Had to pocket the 8-Ball quick. Dunno if they know I’m the one who’s got it now. They probably do, but why risk it, choice?
Anyway—Alex did most of the talking ‘cause right then, I finally got a fucking reply. Strangest sensation in the world—stranger than any peyote, psilocybin, or datura. The 8-Ball started rolling in my pocket on its own, and as it did, my thoughts sloshed around like the black ink inside it. Then—clear as day—I saw an answer form in my mind.
…Now, what the hell was the question I asked?
Decaffeinate Receipt
“Music to my ears.”
Cipher | 3 Words