Tomato Soup

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The asshole says he asked for soy

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The asshole says he asked for soy.

He didn't ask for soy.

I'd remember it if he asked for soy. I have a great memory — the best fucking memory.

Dude ordered a mocha, three pumps of peppermint, three pumps of chocolate. He didn't say soy.

Yet here he is, all red-faced and bloated with rage, yelling for a manager when I'm pretty sure the asshole got his drink for free anyway. Customer rewards. So I'm not sure why he's so irate.

"I'll find the manager for you," I say as I close my eyes and I sigh, resisting the urge to rip his vegan motherfucking throat out.

I could do it, I think, lunge across the counter and just rip that fucker right out. Jugular and all.

It would be so damn easy ... pleasurable, even. Just lock my jaw down ... let my teeth puncture that soft, fatty skin ... taste the hot blood, tangy and rich like tomato soup, but better, sharper, more intense and filling ...

The fuck? Stop! I realize I'm staring at the dude's neck and wrench my eyes away. He's standing with his arms crossed, apparently done flaying me alive with his tongue, and now he's reserving his energy for Kara, my manager, who's out on the floor.

But I'm not going to get Kara ... nope, sorry bud.

I'm wandering toward the stockroom. I'm trying to find an exit. I need a break from all this light. It's just too bright and intense, making my eyes hurt. My head's pounding and I feel so hot. This is one hell of a hangover— I hope. The way I'm feeling, a hangover seems like the least of my worries, because I'm pretty sure I have something worse. Flu or something. Black Plague. Early-onset menopause. I don't know.

What the hell did I do last night? I can't remember much of anything after we left Dead Sexy Cabaret. Hannah said she wanted to take me out, so I went, but did she drug me?

Everything's so dizzy. I remember drinking out of some sort of chalice and I remember following that Nissan Z to the motel.

Otherwise, my mind's a black hole, and now Hannah won't return my texts. It's driving me crazy!

Whatever we did, my head's beating and my skin's like kindling and I'm pretty sure I'm on the verge of spontaneous combustion.

Plus I can't quit thinking about ripping that dude's throat out! I'm so fucking hungry or thirsty or something, but I can't figure out exactly what it is I want; I only that if I don't get it soon, I'm going to flip the fuck out on someone real hard ...

"You okay?" Tim asks and I think I nod my head at him. Maybe I even say something. I don't know. I don't care. I hit the crash bar and listen to the back door bang open, and nothing in the world sounds better than going home and hitting the bed and sleeping for a few hours.

And maybe getting some tomato soup.

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