Hot Pot o' Coffee

This is about a dude named Gabe. Who likes to extract, and might have a minor addiction to, souls.

I talked with an old man in a coffee shop once, and though his hat was light, his heart was not. Every day for the past week I have observed him, he has come here at exactly eight p.m. He sits in the corner of the coffee shop, alone, his gnarled hands cradling a coffee mug. A scraggly moustache wet with beads of coffee clings to his upper lip, his deep blue eyes focusing on everything and nothing, pondering both the cost of the coffee and the cost of life. Those eyes will haunt me for the rest of my life, I know it, peering at me from beneath the brim of his baby blue, sodden fisherman’s hat. He was poor, that was clear to see, from the cracked rubber soles of his therapeutic shoes, to the olive army jacket that was wearing thin at the elbows. The barista didn’t bother to kick him out of the coffee shop, as she knew that he had no better place to be.

The establishment is on a Toronto street corner, composed of 1% real wood and 99% vinyl wood, which is meant to make the place seem rustic and cozy, but instead makes it feel cramped, dark, and brooding. I watch him here from across the restaurant, and see his lips purse as he struggles to pay for the single cup of drip coffee with two creams. Through the clink of spoons on saucers, and the soft laughter of salespeople meeting here for business deals concerning car insurance, or vacuums, or something equally dry and trivial, I can hear his voice; a weary one. “Nevermind. Take it away. I can’t pay for it today. I’ll come back tomorrow,” he said, with a voice scratched by decades of chain-smoking, struggling to his feet slowly.

The waitress studies him for a moment, then wobbles on her new heels as she shrugs. She looks nice enough, a young girl still in uni trying to pay off her student loans, her unkempt red hair tied back hastily as she greets him with mechanical politeness in hopes of a tip, a tripwire sensitive to Italian silk suits and stilettos. I make my way through the rows of tables crammed side by side, turn to the girl, and said, “It’s fine. I’ll pay for it.” Her eyes flick from me to the man, then heads to the back of the shop, frozen for a moment as the coffee pot screams it’s woes.

I sit down beside him as he stares at me, speechless, tears in his eyes as his mouth hangs open, the soft track lights exposing crooked yellowed teeth. “Thank you, sir. I don’t know how to repay you. What’s… what’s your name?” I flash him a smile, then settle myself into the stiff vinyl wood chair. So close, and yet he is clueless. “Name’s Gabe. I’ve seen you in here almost every day, yet you never order any food. You live on the streets?” I ask, curious. He shakes his head, not offended. “I don’t live on the streets. I have an apartment.” “Then why look like that?” I jerk my head towards his unruly hair, towards the absence of hygiene that suggests homelessness. God, humans disgust me.

“I can’t spare the time. I’m… waiting for someone. I last saw someone very important to me here, and everyday I come, waiting for them to return. Maybe someday, they will. My wife, she was-” He shakes his head, like he’s said too much already. “Dead?” I ask. “Pardon?” He said, eyes still trained on the door. “Is she dead? Or could she be dead?” His eyes drop to the cup of coffee.  “I still have hope she’s alive,” he mumbles quietly. “But she’s probably dead.” I said, slowly rolling off my glove. I will kill this rebel, I think. Otherwise, the humans will think that the battle for the Earth is in fact a war, not a slaughter. But first, a little fun.

I lunge for his wrist, his body heat seeping into my bare skin. His blue eyes widen, and his stare could see through my disguise, through to the orders given, how his time was due, there was no more time-

But he said nothing, simply stands up shakily, and leaves. The waitress comes over, setting the bill on the table. I wait a beat, then grab the waitress by the arm. The reaction is instantaneous. She tries to shrug me off, primal fear permeating the air, desperately trying to escape. She can feel her soul leaking out of her, can feel my power, and fears it, but cannot explain it, the inexplicable thing that is fear. Her, face flushed, eyes darting, arm still pulling. Me, my hand solid and strong as she feels the delicious heat leave her body- she stumbles away, my hand loosening at the apex of her pull as she careens into the table behind us.

The pot of scalding hot java splatters all over her, running in rivulets down her robin blue uniform, the ceramic mugs of specialty drinks shattering as she collapses onto the table, the groomed salesman in their thousand-dollar suits sidestepping away to avoid staining their clothes with coffee, the arabica brew pouring down, seeping into her clothes, a sickening hissing sound as it hits her skin, leaving burns that will scar, will turn her pretty face into a work of beautiful cruelty, her red hair being dyed by the deep brown colour, and above all of this a scream, a shrill scream that stops your blood cold, a horrible scream that no one ever hopes to hear. Now, shouting, people calling for the manager, stepping closer, trying to see what has happened. Humans are naturally drawn to tragedy. And through all of this, I effortlessly weave my way through the three star coffee house to the door. I only look back once, the rain soaking my clothes, the door half-open, the waitress writhing in pain as steam rises off of her form in lazy curls, a swarm of people around where her pathetic body lies. I smile.

The old man was running. Not that I didn’t expect him to. I would be almost disappointed if he didn’t. The rain splashes around his feet, wet squelches in the puddles as the water worms its way through the cracked soles. He’s running aimlessly between the derelict buildings, turning almost at random down avenues and roads, but it makes no difference. All I have to do is wait, because I know exactly where he is going. He is going to go get the gun. The gun, that he left in his apartment. The gun, that he refused to use so many years ago. The gun, that would have spared his wife from a life without a soul.

So rather than bothering to run after him, I stroll down the street, whistling an easy tune that is muffled by the torrential downpour that refuses to let up. I could fly after him, but it would take my wings hours afterwards to dry. I see him freeze as his weak eyes catch my silhouette. As I walk towards him, his demeanor shifts; his back straightens, his mouth set in a grim line. “I should have known that it was you, Azrael.” He sighs, rolling up his sleeves, removing his fisherman’s hat to reveal his long, ratty hair.

“Well, do it already. I’m not going to run. I’m done running. From you, and all the other feathered b******s.” I step forward, my hand still gloveless, wrapping about his throat, ready to drain him of every memory of sunny afternoons and hot fudge sundaes. I said nothing, considering him. He shifts from foot to foot. Impatient. Tired. Defeated. There would be no fun in this.

“No,” I growl, and his eyes widen at my refusal to take his life. Not yet, anyways. “You know how we kill. We need some… entertainment. Some excitement. Like the excitement your wife provided for us as we extracted her soul. See, we angels don’t need to consume souls, but then you apes don’t need to consume wine. Tell me, when she looked at you with those blank, empty eyes after we gutted her soul, did you know that she’d leave you? Did you know that she didn’t love you anymore, couldn’t stand your touch? She thought you were a cockroach-” I smile down on him as a guttural noise rises from his throat, his anger pulsing against my skin.

“Good, good. Now we’re getting there. Give me a show, Johnny boy. Tell me how you longed for her night after night, wishing she’d recognize you, love you. Tell me how much you wish you’d pulled the trigger so she hadn’t.” I said. John snarls again, lunging. Careless, really. I catch his right fist in one hand, left shoulder in the other, and slam him down on the pavement, drawing out my thin blade faster than his mortal eyes could follow.

The holy instrument slices along his wrists as the human passion flows into my mouth, every second of love and happiness in his existence absconding from his body, leaving only dark things like hate and grief in it’s place. “Your wife was fun to play with, but with you it’s strictly business. Nothing personal. You understand, yes?” I said. “You won’t win.” John croaks, lying in the street like a dog, blood streaming from the corner of his mouth. Almost dead.

I laugh, a dark, cruel laugh. How did he expect to win? The humans cannot defeat death, cannot defeat me. The angels will reclaim the earth from the humans. There is no doubt of that. He starts to ramble to me about something as useless as love conquering all, and my smile vanishes.  My wicked blade slashes across his throat. I leave his body there, my mission complete, his life pouring down the drain in a single red line, following a crack in the pavement, and into the sewers. None shall escape the Angel of Death.

Author's Note

Pls have mercy