Seasonal Offering

Bill Hubbard tapped his foot audibly as he waited in line to place his order at The Pequod Coffee House. It was autumn, and the pumpkin spice latte was back. It had been back for a few weeks, but he'd been so busy with work that he hadn't made the time to get one yet. Okay, he'd actually never even had one before. When he had mentioned this to his best friend Pepo, a burly firefighter, Pepo had done the "chef's kiss" gesture and said in a Valley Girl accent "Oh em gee, they are like, literally, to die for!"

It was finally Bill's turn to order. "A small pumpkin spice latte please, iced."

"Oh my gosh I'm so sorry!" The barista said. "She just got the last one," and she pointed behind him. 

Bill had one quirk. Years ago of watching videos online of random strangers getting into sudden altercations had taught him something very important. It was that when people are in an argument and someone finally throws that first punch, there is often a moment of confusion from the person who just got hit. It's a few seconds of disbelief, of shock, of outrage, before they truly accept that what was angry shouting had become a proper battle. Bill had long ago vowed that were he ever to be attacked, anywhere, at any time, that he would not hesitate for an instant. He would throw himself at his enemy with all his might, kicking and punching and biting and scratching, headbutting noses, kneeing groins, gouging eyeballs. He believed, with all his heart, that how a person reacted to that first millisecond of danger could and would determine the outcome of the rest of their life.

And yet, he was still caught completely off guard when he turned to see who the barista was pointing at, and a petite redhead wearing a cap that said "Manager" punched him right in the throat.

The next 7 minutes were utter chaos. 

Bill briefly regained consciousness as the baristas were dragging him into the back of the cafe to the food prep area. The patrons of the Pequod Coffee House stared blankly at him, just as they had during the entirety of the fight.

Bill grinned, toothlessly, as he saw that one of baristas still lay twitching under the espresso machine he had managed to knock onto him. 

Then everything went black, and Bill Hubbard saw no more ever again.

The barista with the Manager cap addressed the customers as they reformed into their original order in line. "Sorry for the delay everyone," she said, wiping blood from her mouth. "He lasted longer than most."

From the back of the cafe came the whirring sound of a massive industrial blender. The manager cupped her hand to her ear in an exaggerated gesture of listening. "Sounds like our pumpkin spice flavoring will be ready any minute now!"

A few of the customers in line gave a dull, half-hearted cheer, but most of them didn't even look up from their phones.  

-inspired by David LeDuc

Authors note: Today I learned that Blue Hubbard is a type of pumpkin, and the species of pumpkin that we use for jack-o'-lanterns is called 'cucurbita pepo'. I think. It's what came up when I googled and that's as much fact-checking as I'm willing to do tonight. This is really hard you know? I'm completely out of shape, writing-wise, and I've forgotten all the style rules for dialogue and I keep attempting outlandish tense agreements and this whole thing started as a joke about a made-up October writing event like NaNoWriMo but now I'm in too deep and I don't see a way out without admitting I made the whole thing up and dammit if I'm known for one thing, it's my foolish consistency. If I were known for two things, I'd add my winning smile but that's neither here nor there. My work is also extremely busy so I was totally gonna bail tonight but I couldn't and I have kind of an idea for tomorrow night which would be awesome if I didn't have to you knew SLEEP once in a while. Goodnight, and a special goodnight to the person whose fault this all is. That's right, all of it. I take no responsibility whatsoever. Hey I'm a writer again and you know how fickle we are. GOODNIGHT

EDITORS NOTE: We regret the preceding diatribe and can assure you Gurg has been locked safely in his writer's cage (it's just a regular cage but if you tell him something is a "writer's whatever" he immediately stops being suspicious and even starts to demand it) and will not bother anyone for at least 18 hours. Goodnight, and support your local animal rescue.