CUTC-012
Barista: Jericho Myerscough
Date: Dec-10-2019
Receipt: CUTC-012
Subject: Corpses
If you ask it the right questions, the 8-Ball’ll give you the right answers.
That’s what Jean says. That’s what Jenni says. That’s what Jackie says. That’s always been the rule with this cursed bit of kitsch. Doesn’t mean it’ll be helpful, or kind, or even close to what you want to hear—but it’ll be something, choice? More than that—it’ll always—always—be something that defies Fate. A push. A whisper. A hint at what to do when you don’t fancy doing what’s meant to be done.
But today? Bloody thing’s just pissing me off.
Figured I’d start simple. Just testing the waters, like. A corpse. That’s what Magogo and Solomon were after. What the Zulus were after. A corpse different from the one we just cleaned up. So, I asked the most straightforward question possible.
Where is the corpse?
Oh, piss off. Always is with this stupid orb. Whatever—give ‘er another shake, reset my thoughts, try a more direct question.
What is the corpse?
…Beg your pardon?
What d’you mean, cannot predict now? The 8-Ball doesn’t predict. It knows. It’s knowledge, for Devil’s sake—that’s the whole bloody point! I rolled it between my palms, the chill biting into my skin. Had a dozen more questions lined up, but each one crawled back down my throat before I could spit it out. If it couldn’t answer me, that meant one of two things:
Either this corpse ain’t a corpse at all.
Or whatever’s left of it don’t wanna be found.
Tried one more time. One last question. One last desperate flick of the wrist.
Should we even bother to keep looking?
Well—can’t argue with that, can I?