The light of Sunday morning, divided into a dozen slits of pain by blinds, hits his noggin. Last night at Skully’s was a rager: he feels this in his head, coming to on his floor. Chunks of food lead from his open, drool-crusted mouth, out the door, into the hallway, and, probably, to the toilet. Bulletproof, his cat, is licking hungrily at partially digested White Castle meat at the edge of his mattress.

Water. That’s what he needs right now. Slowly, he rises from his resting spot, stumbles to his feet, and falls flat on his face. No good to walk, he’s that hungover. So, he slides, inch by inch and careful to avoid vomit, from his bedroom floor, through the door, past his roommate’s girlfriend eating a bowl of Apple Jacks in the kitchen, and, using the little power in his arms, lifts his body up to the counter’s level. With both hands closed together, forming a fleshy makeshift cup, he laps, like a kitty, water from the faucet. Tierra, the girlfriend, watches.

“Whoa man,” he says, driblets of water and saliva cruising over his chin, down his chest, “Had a friggin’ rager at Skully’s last night.”

“I know,” Tierra, bitterly, “I woke up with Slider meat on my feet.”

He reaches into the cupboard for the Folgers tin.

“Where’s the Folgers, babe?”

“We’re out, and don’t call me babe.”

“Whoa, like, we’re out?”

“No Tommy. Not only ‘we,’ but there is no more coffee in the world. All of the world’s coffee is out, gone.”

“Get out.”

“Yes, we’re out.”

“Ah, well, like, that’s outrageous.”

“Go buy some more?”

“I thought you said the- oh, yeah, you were yankin’ me bro, okay, I’ll go buy more.”

And so, our man runs for the ja, stopping once to puke in an alley behind Fifth-Third Bank. On the corner of High and 10th, there is a GrabNGo Fuel Station. He dips inside, and looks for the grocery aisle. Ah, here it is! Folgers, bro. He grips one tin of the Black Silk blend and moves for the check-out line.

Today, Steven is working the register. Steven here is a Level 99 Dark Knight in Final Fantasy XI. He lives on his own, works full-time, here, at the GrabNGo. Unfortunately, Steven’s day is not today, because behind our dude, a feller walks in all conspicuous-like, wearing a Michelle Obama mask and keeping his right hand in his pants. Michelle, behind our protagonist, screams, “Stop what you are fucking doing. Give me all the money in the fucking register.

“Like, whoa man, you didn’t have the best part of your morning, did ya bro?” asks our Protagonist.

“ … And the fuck is that?”

The criminal, turning back to the cashier.

“Fuckin’ whoa, no pennies, Shaggy”

“Folgers, bro, in your cup. Every day holds, like, new possibilities. Look in the Good Stuff aisle bro, you’ll see.”

“But I don’t have a fuckin’ Keurig!”

“Ah, no bro, it’s cool, look, you can buy the classic grounds, or, pick up a thing of Instant Coffee Crystal Powder.”

“Fuckin’ Wowza.”

“Aye, bro, I know. And, like, get this?”

“Yeah, fucker?”

“They sponsor Team USA in the Olympics.”

“Fuck bro.”

“Yeah bro.”

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