Mitch propelled himself towards the coffee station with determination. After placing his #2 Dad mug on the counter, he unsheathed the carafe from its warmer. He took a moment to take in the earthen scent. It reminded him of Nova Scotia, where he had run into a guy who had seen a movie about a guy who had been in the CIA. Mitch wondered what had happened to that guy.
He shrugged and poured the coffee into his cup. It was soon joined by a half packet of imitation sugar and two full tubs of Granny St. Cloggin's Creamer Foam, the container for which purported an alleged bonus quantity of "15% More!" He doubted the veracity of this claim.
But as he stirred the witch's brew into a gelatinous froth, he caught a blur in his right periphery. It was accompanied by a soft yet rapid pitter patter that Mitch instinctively recognized as a man running in his socks. It had to be Jeremy. Dumping the shoes was a smart move; he'd gotten within striking distance before Mitch had detected him.
Jeremy's left palm slammed into Mitch's clavicle, sending him backwards a few inches but also causing him to fling his mug of piping hot coffee slime into Jeremy's face. As Jeremy's hands went up reflexively, Mitch caught him in the ribs with a ferocious upperslap. Jeremy's earbuds fell from his ears like descending testicles, tinny electronica escaping from the tiny speakers like the cries of a molested hummingbird.
Mitch sought to deliver a subsequent niptwist, but Jeremy blocked the probing pincers with his forearm. Jeremy then tugged his ear violently and the pain nearly knocked Mitch unconsciousness. Instead, he batted Jeremy's hand away and drove a foot into his shin. Jeremy staggered, his face a wretched wince. Mitch saw an opportunity to end it. Right here, and right now. He launched forward to deliver the final blow.
Twenty feet away, their manager, Lance, stood with his arms crossed, watching the two of them. My god, is one of them not wearing shoes? he thought. He'd seen them go at it like this before and he always found it an amusing diversion. And lord knows, these days one could use a distraction! It helped keep out the dark things. The dark, violent things that lurked in Lance's mind. He could feel them now. In his brain. Their icy fingers sinking into the flesh of his sanity. Making him do things. Making him hate. Making him kill. Making him... making... make...
"Um... I'm gonna make some coffee!" he blurted, accenting each word more awkwardly than the last.
Mitch and Jeremy ceased their poor excuse for a fight and turned to Lance.
"That'd be great!" exclaimed Mitch like a child you want to punch in the face.
Jeremy nodded confirmingly. "Yes, indeed. I think we'd like that mighty fine!"
Lance wiped the sweat from his vein-addled forehead. They totally bought it! he thought.
He walked over to the coffee station and began the tedious brewing routine. He stared at the ground beans and saw within them a reflection of the same jet black abyss that dwelt inside him, swirling its secrets. An ancient, infinite void beyond mortal comprehension. Biding its time. Waiting.
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