Foxy Barista

oh my god so I'm at this place "Lush Coffee Cat" and it's supposed to be zen right like all muted greens and the hiss of the thousand-dollar espresso machine sounds like a tiny rainstorm and the other cats are just these sleepy blobs of floof named like "Bean" or "Chai" and I'm trying to drink this lavender-oat-milk situation that cost twelve dollars but in the back corner there's this thing this structure it's not a cat tree it's a pile of shame covered in a purple velvet rag they call the "Cove" and the baristas won't look at it directly they just whisper about "Foxy" and how he's "decommissioned" before noon but you can just feel the vibe get weird like the lo-fi beats get staticky and then it happens this grrrrrrrr sound not a purr a grrrr like a fax machine dying or a dial-up modem having a nightmare and suddenly this gray blur this scrawny little guy just bolts out of the curtain all claws and elbows and he's not even running to anything he's just running at the concept of 3 PM on a Tuesday, his one eye squinted shut and his little paw held up like a hook, just SKITTER SKITTER SKITTER on the polished concrete floor making this sound like YEEEEEE-YAR-MEOW and he slams into the pastry glass and just screams at his own reflection for a solid minute, a tiny mangy pirate demon fueled by pure spite and maybe decaf, and then just as fast he's gone, sprint sprint sprint back into the velvet void, and everyone just pretends it didn't happen and sips their coffee while I'm sitting there pretty sure my soul just got audited by a cat who's definitely out of order.

19/87