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Ken sat angrily at the table, glaring at his drink. The drink stared back. It consisted of overly sweetened dairy, blended with sugary chocolate. It was topped with some expensive, sugar-loaded, diabetes-screaming sprinkles with extra syrup.
The drink the male Karen had ordered was good.
The problem? He didn’t want to pay.
Ken got up and stomped his way to the counter. He slammed down his drink. “I demand a refund!” He yelled at the cashier.
The cashier, a boy who looked to be in his late teens, looked up at him from his phone. “Yes, and the reason is…?” He asked, thumbs tapping away at some pixel game.
“It tasted absolutely disgusting,” Ken snorted, nudging the drink away.
The boy looked pointedly at the drink. “Sir, you’ve drunk nearly all of it.”
“So?!” exclaimed Ken. The boy’s headband was irking him. He decided that he wanted to annoy him a little bit. “I want a refund! It wasn’t good. At all.”
The boy shook his head. “I’m sorry, but you’ve already drunk so much of it. I’m afraid you cannot have a refund.”
Ken gasped, shocked at the fact that things were not going his way. “I want to speak to your manager!”
“The manager is currently out.”
His lack of expression was starting to anger Ken. “You—!”
“But there is another way you can get paid back.”
Ken’s eyes gleamed with money. “I appreciate it.”
The boy looked to the side, scanning if the coast was clear.
Then he leaned forward and pecked Ken on the lips.
Ken was aghast.
He was dumbfounded.
He was undergoing abnormal cardiovascular conditions.
As soon as his brain cells began to function once again, his mind went speeding off in different directions. How old was this boy, to begin with! Ken assumed he was at least eighteen. What if he wasn't? Was Ken about to be labeled a creep if anyone caught him?! No, he would find a way out of this.
It was time. He pulled out his metaphorical megaphone.
He was ready to open his mouth and scream for security before another worker ran out from the back, fuming. His green and yellow highlights were so striking that it nearly blinded Ken. His eyes were covered by pitch black shades, but Ken could tell they were smoldering with rage.
“How DARE YOU!” The newcomer screamed, grabbing Ken by the collar and hoisting him upwards. “How dare you put your nasty, disgusting, feeble, commoner, plebeian, shit-eating, mouth-breather fingers on my boyfriend! Kinich is mine, and I’M NOT SHARING!”
The boy—Kinich—tried his best to pull the newcomer away. “Ajaw,” he groaned, exasperated. “I’ll put you in time out again!”
Ajaw shook Ken by the collar. “How dare you kiss him! I’ll kiss you now! See if you like THAT!”
And with that, he leaned over the counter and gave a wet smooch on Ken’s lips.
Kinich blinked. He ignored Ken, who was as still as a statue. “That’s it,” he yanked Ajaw away with his apron. “It’s timeout time.”
“RAHHH!” Ajaw beat his fists into the air. “I’ll be back, you fucking pedo! I’ll beat your shitty face up! How dare you touch him! Kinich, unhand me at once! I’ll go show that piece of shit what the Almighty Dragonlord K’uhul Ajaw is made of—!”
His vulgar words faded out as the doors swung shut.
Ken stood there, mortified. He hurried out of the cafe, looking for the nearest surprise baptism.