The goddamn bakery, advertising a new blend of hot chocolate that they brag is far better than what the coffeeshop offers.
“Motherfucker!”
Chapter 8
Devon
My gasp has other patrons in the coffee shop paying attention, pulling people in from the sidewalk and sharing the story, and while I sit there shaking, trying to figure out the best way to go about solving the problem, it seems that an angry mob is forming.
I may be new here, but Chip? He’s a seasoned resident, even if he hasn’t always been able to communicate with others. Maybe everyone seemed so hands off with me earlier because they thought the problem would work itself out, but now that they’re confronted with proof? They’re kind of pissed.
“FOR CHIP!” Someone screams as they brandish a pan from the kitchen.
Someone else jumps onto the coffee delivery counter, rips off his shirt with both hands, baring his chest, while yelling quite loudly.
The barista is arming herself with large quantities of mixing spoons, handing out frothing pitchers, and the bakers from the kitchen are pulling off their aprons and waving heavy duty rolling pins and sheet pans.
“Well, what are you waiting for?” one of the mob members asks me. I should probably make an effort to learn their names after this.
“I…I’m sorry, somebody fill me in. What’s the plan here?”
They look at me like I’m crazy… then someone brandishing an empty glass milk jug that they’ve smashed over a chair to create a very deadly weapon folds their arms and says, “Ah. I get it. Guys, she’s human.”
This gets a lot of sympathetic nods and claims of, “That explains it!” until the speaker carefully places their weapon down somewhere safe-ish and approaches me with their hands clasped. “Dear child, it is customary to go to war for our lost brethren. Whoever has done your Chip ill must pay. We are our own law here in Trash Haven, and we suffer no fools.”
I feel my jaw drop. “Are you telling me you intend to march over there and start killing people? Please tell me you plan on asking questions first!”
They have the audacity to look shocked in return. “Why, we’re not barbarians! No. We will intimidate the hell out of whoever is behind all this, rough them up a bit, and then they go to the detention center until we figure out how to punish them. My god, what is wrong with humans? Always with the killing!”
I fail to clarify that it wasthemI thought planned on doing the killing, because I’m a bit intimidated at the moment.
“Right. Well, onward forth…and such?” I ask, grabbing…a napkin dispenser. Hey, it’s stainless steel.
I look to the leader of the mob for weapon approval, and when I get it, I tuck my fingers into it and raise it over my head, really getting into the spirit of it.
“Wow. Thanks for the help, Mom,” I sass as she fails to find an inappropriate weapon and instead proceeds to film this entire thing, presumably for future entertainment purposes. I guess I have enough people backing me though that one less set of tongs or such raised in violence won’t make a difference.
I truly do not understand how the five or so people that were in the coffee shop, plus the handful of employees, have turned into a mob of at least twenty, but that’s not important.
As soon as we step into the road, the baker sees us coming, eyes wide as they rush to the front door, trying to lock themselves in. The mob takes care of that little nuisance for me.
Somebody shifts into a bull, crashing right through the bakery’s front door, while somebody else is saying an incantation to remove all the glass so no bystanders get cut by it. It’s all swirling into the air and neatly stacking in even-sized pieces on the nearest roof until it’s needed again.
“What is the meaning of this?” The baker shouts, clearly blocking the entrance to the kitchen.
Everyone turns to me, staying silent.
Oh, right. I guess that’s my cue.
“We demand the safe return of Chip the Cocoa Shifter from these premises immediately…or else!”
I get a few hands of applause for the effort, which I greatly appreciate.
Some of the bakery patrons are now gasping as the mob continues to recruit, and more implements are added to our arsenal; the wall itself cracks open to reveal the shape of a very tall woman, made of bricks, who does not look happy to have been awoken.
“I know not who you speak of!” the baker insists, while also trying to jump through the humanoid-shaped hole the brick woman left behind. Sure, they look real innocent with that move.
Somebody reaches through the hole with a vine arm that can apparently grow however long is needed to stop the baker once again, pulling them back into the bakery by the underpants, of all things.
