(parenthetical) (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
parenthetical) wrote2008-04-07 12:02 am
parenthetical) wrote2008-04-07 12:02 am
[anotherlongtitlewtf; mostly good omens gen, 914 words]
Title: In Which There Is Black Coffee, An Annoyed Apocalyptic Personification, Contamination by Another Name, Biscotti, and an Idealist In A Coffeehouse
Author:![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
blindmadness
Word Count: 914
Characters/Pairing: Famine, the NCG (Nameless Coffeehouse Guy), and Pollution; mentions of Famine/Pollution near the end.
Rating: PG?
Fandom/'Verse: Good Omens; vague![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
desperatefans influence
Summary: Written in July of '05. The NCG is still one of my favourite OCs.
"Excuse me."
The young man in the coffeehouse smock turned around. He was a new employee; it was his second day on the job, but the first time he'd really done anything -- he was the only one on duty that morning. He was a college student, a vegetarian, a poet, and an idealist; he had heard that the coffeehouse job paid well and had secured a position with help from his uncle, who was the assistant manager. He was extremely excited about the job, his first in a long time, and was certain he could bring about a great deal of change for the better at the coffeehouse.1
The customer who had spoken was the tall, thin man in black at the corner table. He looked vaguely familiar to the young man, who couldn't place why but distinctly recalled making his coffee himself only minutes ago. He beamed, giving the man a bright smile that was, unlike those of his co-workers, entirely genuine. "Yes, sir?"
The coffeehouse had been Famine's haunt for months now; he came at least once a week. The staff had gotten used to their mysterious, sudden food shortages and the strange, suspicious absences of their more nutritious snacks; they attributed it to bad luck and oversights in management, and even joked about coffeehouse ghosts. They all knew Famine, by sight if not by name, and always knew exactly what he wanted to drink; this strangely eager, energetic boy who had needed to ask must have been new.
Famine, who drank very strong black coffee, had noticed that there was something wrong the second he had taken his first sip. Perhaps a human would have missed it; Famine, who had been drinking coffee almost before it had become an actual drink, could not.
"What," he asked the young man, in tones of icy calm, "have you done to my coffee?"
The young man blinked. "Sir?"
Famine sighed impatiently, tapping the side of the his cup with a slim finger. "This is not my usual coffee. I believe I made my order quite clear...it's come through perfectly before. Seeing as I myself have, clearly, added nothing, I'm forced to conclude that you've done something to this coffee that I haven't asked for. I'd very much like to know what that was."
The young man fidgeted. He was sure he knew what Famine was referring to, but he shouldn't've been able to tell...and it was for his own health, anyway... He blinked at Famine, trying not to show his guilt or let his smile falter. "S-sir, I'm not sure I -- "
"Kindly stop bullshitting me," Famine interrupted calmly, his tone and expression neutral but his hand gripping the coffee cup tightly. "I am older than you, young man, and I have been to more places than you will ever go and seen things the magnitude of which you can never imagine, and I will be here long after you are gone, and I want to know what you've done with my coffee."
Famine's tone took on a brief, sharp ferocity; the young man wilted slightly under his glare, wincing faintly, then allowed himself to relax in admission. He drew himself up to his full height,2 determined to feel no guilt over his decision. "It's decaf," he proclaimed triumphantly.
There was a few seconds' deafening silence; Famine's expression had shifted to one of absolute disbelief. "Decaf," he repeated, slowly and incredulously.
The young man nodded, clearly very proud of himself.3
"Decaf," Famine said again, making it sound like the most offensive curse in existence. He stood slowly, tightening his hold on the coffee cup. "I did not," he growled, incredulity slowly shifting to fury, "ask for fucking decaffeinated coffee. What in the name of all things sacred, profane, and anywhere in between made you think that giving me decaffeinated coffee would be a fucking good idea?"
The young man met Famine's livid glare, refusing to obey every instinct telling him to look away. Setting his jaw with a resolve that was considerably shakier than he would have liked, he replied defiantly, "Caffeine pollutes your body."
The few seconds of deafening silence passed again, during which Famine's expression slid back into disbelief. Then, slowly, he closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and allowed a broad grin to spread across his face. He let out a quiet snort, then sank back into his chair and started to laugh. The young man blinked in confusion; when the laughter showed no sign of stopping, he took the opportunity to slip away.4
Ten minutes later, Famine was still chuckling when he waved the white-clad young man who had just entered the coffeehouse over to his table.
1 It is a well-known fact of life that you should never let an idealist work at a coffeehouse. It's only asking for trouble, really.
2 Which had little effect, unfortunately -- at five foot seven, he was barely taller than Famine when the latter was seated.
3 He was firmly convinced that if everyone ate better food and took care of what they ingested, it would bring out the inherent good in all mankind. (He was reprimanded for replacing all the coffeehouse biscotti with carrot sticks a week later.) The psychiatrists at the university always drew straws whenever he came to their office.
4 The laughter only added to his firm opinion that caffeine had an adverse effect on behaviour and that the decaffeinated coffee had been a very good idea.
Author:
blindmadnessWord Count: 914
Characters/Pairing: Famine, the NCG (Nameless Coffeehouse Guy), and Pollution; mentions of Famine/Pollution near the end.
Rating: PG?
Fandom/'Verse: Good Omens; vague
desperatefans influenceSummary: Written in July of '05. The NCG is still one of my favourite OCs.
"Excuse me."
The young man in the coffeehouse smock turned around. He was a new employee; it was his second day on the job, but the first time he'd really done anything -- he was the only one on duty that morning. He was a college student, a vegetarian, a poet, and an idealist; he had heard that the coffeehouse job paid well and had secured a position with help from his uncle, who was the assistant manager. He was extremely excited about the job, his first in a long time, and was certain he could bring about a great deal of change for the better at the coffeehouse.1
The customer who had spoken was the tall, thin man in black at the corner table. He looked vaguely familiar to the young man, who couldn't place why but distinctly recalled making his coffee himself only minutes ago. He beamed, giving the man a bright smile that was, unlike those of his co-workers, entirely genuine. "Yes, sir?"
The coffeehouse had been Famine's haunt for months now; he came at least once a week. The staff had gotten used to their mysterious, sudden food shortages and the strange, suspicious absences of their more nutritious snacks; they attributed it to bad luck and oversights in management, and even joked about coffeehouse ghosts. They all knew Famine, by sight if not by name, and always knew exactly what he wanted to drink; this strangely eager, energetic boy who had needed to ask must have been new.
Famine, who drank very strong black coffee, had noticed that there was something wrong the second he had taken his first sip. Perhaps a human would have missed it; Famine, who had been drinking coffee almost before it had become an actual drink, could not.
"What," he asked the young man, in tones of icy calm, "have you done to my coffee?"
The young man blinked. "Sir?"
Famine sighed impatiently, tapping the side of the his cup with a slim finger. "This is not my usual coffee. I believe I made my order quite clear...it's come through perfectly before. Seeing as I myself have, clearly, added nothing, I'm forced to conclude that you've done something to this coffee that I haven't asked for. I'd very much like to know what that was."
The young man fidgeted. He was sure he knew what Famine was referring to, but he shouldn't've been able to tell...and it was for his own health, anyway... He blinked at Famine, trying not to show his guilt or let his smile falter. "S-sir, I'm not sure I -- "
"Kindly stop bullshitting me," Famine interrupted calmly, his tone and expression neutral but his hand gripping the coffee cup tightly. "I am older than you, young man, and I have been to more places than you will ever go and seen things the magnitude of which you can never imagine, and I will be here long after you are gone, and I want to know what you've done with my coffee."
Famine's tone took on a brief, sharp ferocity; the young man wilted slightly under his glare, wincing faintly, then allowed himself to relax in admission. He drew himself up to his full height,2 determined to feel no guilt over his decision. "It's decaf," he proclaimed triumphantly.
There was a few seconds' deafening silence; Famine's expression had shifted to one of absolute disbelief. "Decaf," he repeated, slowly and incredulously.
The young man nodded, clearly very proud of himself.3
"Decaf," Famine said again, making it sound like the most offensive curse in existence. He stood slowly, tightening his hold on the coffee cup. "I did not," he growled, incredulity slowly shifting to fury, "ask for fucking decaffeinated coffee. What in the name of all things sacred, profane, and anywhere in between made you think that giving me decaffeinated coffee would be a fucking good idea?"
The young man met Famine's livid glare, refusing to obey every instinct telling him to look away. Setting his jaw with a resolve that was considerably shakier than he would have liked, he replied defiantly, "Caffeine pollutes your body."
The few seconds of deafening silence passed again, during which Famine's expression slid back into disbelief. Then, slowly, he closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and allowed a broad grin to spread across his face. He let out a quiet snort, then sank back into his chair and started to laugh. The young man blinked in confusion; when the laughter showed no sign of stopping, he took the opportunity to slip away.4
Ten minutes later, Famine was still chuckling when he waved the white-clad young man who had just entered the coffeehouse over to his table.
1 It is a well-known fact of life that you should never let an idealist work at a coffeehouse. It's only asking for trouble, really.
2 Which had little effect, unfortunately -- at five foot seven, he was barely taller than Famine when the latter was seated.
3 He was firmly convinced that if everyone ate better food and took care of what they ingested, it would bring out the inherent good in all mankind. (He was reprimanded for replacing all the coffeehouse biscotti with carrot sticks a week later.) The psychiatrists at the university always drew straws whenever he came to their office.
4 The laughter only added to his firm opinion that caffeine had an adverse effect on behaviour and that the decaffeinated coffee had been a very good idea.