Why the hell is it called Cash's cup then? one young man remarked.
It's the name of the barista.
Oh well that makes sense, the young man said while returning to his phone. I like that guy!
No that's not Cash. That's James. He's just a barista.
But you just said the barista's name was Cash!
Well Cash is the boss.
Now that's a boss name! Cash. I should change my name to that.
Well like I was saying. Cash is the boss. But James is just an employee.
Just an employee? What do you mean 'just'?
I'm just saying--
You keep saying that word. 'just'. Quit using the word just!
What's your problem man?
My problem? the young man stood up. He was taller and wider breasted than the other young man. The other young man kept his shoulders slouched and averted his gaze.
I'm just saying man--
You just fucking said just again!
But you just --
I SAID. QUIT FUCKING SAYING JUST!
Two hours later there were snipers outside the busiest street in
Westcity
. There was a riot. Or a protest. Depending on who you asked. A class struggle. One side fighting on behalf of the employees and the labor class. The other side fighting for the owners.
People were unsure how it started. Rumors stated a conversation in a cafe where one young man called the employee a slave. And then there was a scuffle. Near by spectators began participating by brawling. Things were about to settle down when one older man nearby took out his concealed carry pistol and waved it in the air. Then another elderly woman nearby took out her concealed carry and shot it. She didn't hit anyone but it startled the man and he aimed it at her and hit her in the chest. She fell down. Her husband knelt down picked up the pistol and began shooting frantically.
Then suddenly a truck from on the main strip stopped and three men with assault rifles began shooting into the air causing further havoc. Two police cars arrived and were met with bullets.
---
He was sweating. Hard. It was a hot fucking day. He felt his wound through the bullet proof. The wound he had gotten from the
Seaside Rest
. He was wheezing. Could barely breathe. If only he could take this vest out. But there was bullets flying everywhere. what the hell was happening? wasn't this just supposed to be a midwestern town? A quiet place.
helicopter blades cut through the air above. Sirens were screaming. He counted how far he was from his AirBnB. He was tempted to just make a run for it. But he knew that runners were the most likely to be targeted. Better to stay put. Stay hidden. god damn he had to take a shit. All that Flat White from Cash's Cup.