“Oh, fuck!” said the Television reporter. Not a normal thing for a television reporter to say, but given the circumstances, a very common reaction to the situation at hand.
The street signs here were easily readable, and in English, but getting around here was just a little harder than one might think.
A young man walked up and held out his hand – there was something that the man wanted to tell him by holding out the first aid kit with the giant cross on it. The television reporter looked down at his chest for the first time in an hour, it was bleeding. Badly.
He had just been shot, while buying his morning coffee. That explained the use of his expletive.
It wasn’t going to turn out that bad, because the bullet had merely grazed the front of his chest – but his coffee was ruined. He loved coffee, and nothing was going to stop him from getting a cup of coffee in the morning. He batted away the hand and shouted at the Israeli aid worker. He walked over to the trash can, threw away his cup, and looked around.
There, by the far wall, was the man who had just ruined his coffee, his favorite Timex watch, and his favorite Carhart jacket. The assailant was running towards him at full force, commanding a troop of three or four men in a vicious attack of the American news reporter.
The reporter turned back to the Starbucks stand. The commotion and chaos had caused all of the customers to leave, that meant that he was at the front of the line. The only problem was that all of the employees had left as well.
This wasn’t the first time he had been shot. Even though it hurt like a hot iron – it sure as Heck wasn’t as bad as the last time. Last time, he was laid out cold for a week and a half. He still had a pain in his back whenever he did the squats, all these years later. To say that it didn’t hurt, though, would be a lie.
All he wanted was his damn coffee.
More gunshots flew over his head. He decided to just take charge of the situation. He jumped over the counter, grabbed a fresh cup, and mixed a drink.
All quick serve resteurants were required to carry shotguns to defend the register in the case of a robbery. He had covered a robbery at this very coffee shop three years ago, and he knew the place where they kept the gun. He pulled down the fire and shrapnel proof door to the counter.
He turned around, the milk was steaming at a good temperature. He poured the milk into his cup, grabbed a tub of carmel, and mixed a quality carmel mocha.
He decided to mix five more, for good measure. He reached into his wallet, and rung up seven drinks on the cash register. (he had not yet paid for his empty cup).
The gun was sitting in a gun safe near the back of the room (that’s what he suggested several years ago). He knew the code already, it was the president’s birthday. He grabbed the gun, and about ten shells, and got on a barista’s outfit (so he could carry the coffee).
When the door opened nobody was in sight. All that the reporter could see was an empty square – when twelve minutes ago, it had been teaming with shoppers.
He stepped out into the square, shotgun at the ready.
There, making their way to the front door on the other side, were his assailants.
What a surprise they got when he appeared behind them holding his gun steady at the smallest one (the one they cared about).
He took their guns, and put a caramel mocha where each of the guns had been.
“Shut up and drink your coffee,” he said in a stern voice to the awe-struck team.
The air was filled with the sound of song from then on, until lunchtime, that is.