How Frappuchino Destroyed the World
By Konstantine Paradias
Before he became Absolute Satrap of Earth and Imperial
Coffee-Lord in Service to the Nur’Faxian Hegemony, Lloyd
Layton was a mediocre, eternally embittered employee of
StarBurst coffee shops, seemingly doomed to a life of
anonymity.
If the Nur’Faxians hadn’t stumbled on the Pioneer space
vessel and discovered absolute proof of the existence of
another sentient (though extremely backward) species, he
would have remained so. It is entirely possible (the
last free savants of mankind speculated, as they shared
a spit-roasted rat in their underground hideouts) that
Lloyd would have lived alone, unloved and without a
retinue of slaves at his command, without even a single
piece of property in his name. In fact (and to this they
all agreed) Lloyd would have died in the manner that he
had lived, his last words a bitter soliloquy, addressed
to the herd of cats milling around his bed, his final
wisdom lost to their animalistic brains.
But, as history would have it, Lloyd had to be the only
employee chosen to service the Nur’Faxians on behalf of
the StarBurst Corporation. His duty was to greet and
provide caffeinated beverages to the representatives of
mankind’s soon-to-be overlords. He had been hand-picked
by a special UN committee, chosen for his average
intelligence; his lack of enthusiasm but above all, his
ability to make a decent venti cup of Caramel
Frappuchino Latte with mocha sprinkles.
This happened in the impossibly short span of eight
hours, during which SETI received a mathematical
acknowledgement from the Nur’Faxians, which roughly
translated to ‘HELLO THERE, MIND IF WE COME OVER?’ The
frantic radio response that followed was taken by the
future lords of the Earth as a YES.
The Nur’Faxian delegates materialized in the middle of
Times Square three hours later, causing some
considerable panic. Lloyd of course missed this
history-altering news-flash by virtue of having slept
in. He was awakened three hours later by his manager.
His manager was screaming at him that he was needed
right now and was to haul his sorry behind over to
serve the Nur’Faxian delegation.
The Nur’Faxians had been drawn to the minimalistic
design of the hundred-foot-high StarBurst ad set in the
middle of Times Square and had immediately requested
coffee-based beverages.
Thus, Lloyd Layton was provided a fully armed escort and
was led into an APC vehicle, where he was hailed by a
four-star general who called him ‘Sir’ and briefed him
extensively on the nature of his mission. Lloyd only
picked at his nose and nodded through the briefing, his
sleep-addled brain struggling to make sense out of the
situation.
The armored convoy drove through eight evacuated city
blocks at top speed, reaching Lloyd’s place of work in
less than ten minutes. Secret Service Agents had
arranged to remove all employees and StarBurst customers
from the premises almost an hour ago, to secure the area
for the arrival of the President of the United States
himself. Lloyd discovered (to his amazement) that his
counter had been cleaned for him almost to a
mirror-shine and that his coffee, whip cream and syrup
supply had been re-stocked.
“Just make the coffees and try your best to stay quiet.”
the four-star general told Lloyd, before clapping him
once on the shoulder and assuming his appointed position
inside an M104 Wolverine tank, inconspicuously parked
just down the street.
In the time it took the Nur’Faxian delegation to
complete their window-shopping spree before finally
reaching the StarBurst shop, Lloyd had helped himself to
the freshest bagel on display and stuffed his pockets
with tip money. Lloyd was halfway through updating his
FaceSpace status, when the door chimed its grating
jingle and the Nur’Faxian delegation hovered inside the
shop toward Lloyd, their giraffe-like necks bobbing up
and down, examining every nook and cranny of this brave
new franchise.
Lloyd mustered his happiest little grin under the
circumstances and muttered in his least-terrified tone
of voice:
“Hi, my name is Lloyd and welcome to Starburst. Can I
take your order?”
“Yes, Lloyd-of-StarBurst. We would like to try a
coffee-based beverage.” Said the Nur’Faxian delegate in
perfect Queen’s English accent.
“Is there anything you would like in particular?” Lloyd
asked. His eyes were transfixed on the shimmering gasses
that were released from the slits on the Nur’Faxian
delegate’s neck; the tiny pair of limbs that extended
beneath the alien’s chin clicked their miniscule
fingers.
“We saw the effigy to your
Venti-Caramel-Frappuchino-with-mocha-sprinkles. We would
wish to try that.”
Had the Nur’Faxian delegates chosen Lloyd to make them
some other beverage from StarBurst’s extensive menu,
perhaps a Cappuccino Affogato, a Café Bombon or even an
Espressino, then perhaps the Earth would have been spared
their iron fist and millions would not have been forced
to toil under the rule of Lloyd Layton. However, this
would require one to extend his suspension of disbelief
to the point where he’d be convinced there was some sort
of justice in the Universe.
Instead, they ordered for half a dozen of the stuff and
watched with awe as Lloyd poured the half-congealed,
crystallized, caffeinated goo into the transparent
plastic cups, topped them with majestic whipped-cream
domes, adorned those domes with caramel trails on which
he sprinkled mocha with the same reverence that a
Renaissance painter would reproduce the Madonna’s
grieving countenance.
The aliens studied the strange beverages with
fascination, running the tips of their long,
multi-jointed fingers across the condensation of the
cup. They struggled with the bendy, primitive tube
contraptions that stuck out of the cream-summits and
slipped their long, forked tongues through the plastic
rings in the tops of the cups, tentatively tasting the
sweetness sprinkled on top of them. After a few minutes
of struggling with these contraptions and some gentle
goading by Lloyd, the Nur’Faxians finally managed to
take their first few sips of Earth coffee.
The change wrought upon the delegates by the caffeine
was drastic. On the first gulp, the half-dozen alien
delegate’s necks snapped up tightly with a whoosh!
On the second gulp, their skins turned the color of
fish-bellies reflecting the sunlight.
On the third gulp, just as the Secret Service agent was
about to dial NASA, the Pentagon and his family just so
he could say his final goodbyes, the Nur’Faxian
delegates grinned a lizard-like grin, all teeth and
gums.
The head of the delegation (a Nur’Faxian with a
significantly longer and ribbed neck) asked Lloyd, who
had crawled behind the counter:
“What a marvelous substance! Such a miraculous
concoction! Tell me, Lloyd-of-StarBust-Coffee, have you
more of it?”
“Yeah, man.” Lloyd muttered, rising up from the counter,
transfixed by two-dozen pairs of eyes. “I got tons
here.”
“Then bring us more of this
Venti-Caramel-Frappuchino-with-mocha-sprinkles!”
“Aye!” the delegates said, rapping their fingers on the
table in anticipation. Lloyd, spurred on by their
enthusiasm produced more of the gooey caffeinated
goodness they asked for and brought it over.
“Tell us, Lloyd-of-StarBurst-Coffee, do you make this
beverage yourself?”
“No, I just work here. But I’ve been doing this for a
while, so I’ve gotten good at it, I guess.”
“How long have you been studying and preparing this
magnificent concoction, Lloyd-of-StarBurst-Coffe?”
“I don’t know, about two years, I guess.”
The delegates turned to each other and began conversing
in the raspy tones of their mother-tongue, translating
the Earthly span of seven hundred and thirty days into
Nur’Faxian rils, shuuls and sbubs. After a long and
heated debate, the alien delegates finally turned to
Lloyd and said:
“That is a very short time for a man to master the ways
of drink.”
“Guess I’m just that good at it, then.” Lloyd lied. His
served beverage was mostly created by a machine,
packaged and frozen and stored in the shop’s tanks weeks
in advance by underpaid Argentinian workers. All he
really did was simply add some extra whip-cream and
about a teaspoon of extra caramel sauce to drown out the
taste of their spit in the brew. The Nur’Faxians were
thankfully unaware of that.
“We would be interested in introducing this elixir to
our homeworld and our Colonies, Lloyd-of-StarBurst-Coffee.
In fact, we would be willing to provide the man who
would give up its secrets with an emperor’s ransom.”
“That so?” Lloyd said, and he was invigorated by malice
of such magnitude as the time he’d dropped a toad down
Amy Donovan’s blouse back in third grade. The Secret
Service agent looked over, his hand reaching for his
gun. “Like, what would you do, for the coffee?”
“What would you ask of us, Lloyd-Of-StarBurst-Coffee?”
asked the Nur’Faxian delegate, immobilizing the Secret
Service agent inside an invisible force field with a
flick of his wrist.
“Well, um, a better counter, for starters?” Lloyd
hazarded.
“You will have a hundred thousand slaves to brew your
elixir in your stead, conditioned to prepare it
according to your specifications.”
“Well if I’ve got like, a hundred thousand slaves, I
guess that’d mean I would have everybody who worked for
StarBurst Coffee in my command.”
“Then that is what you shall have.” The Nur’Faxian head
delegate said, flashing his grin at Lloyd, who pressed
his advantage.
“In that case, I’d need a nice place to live. Like, a
mansion or like maybe a private island, to watch over
the, um, brewing operations?”
“You will be provided with an anti-grav palace, staffed
with the finest pleasure-slaves in our Empire. D’Ruuk,
show Beverage-Lord Lloyd what he’ll be getting.”
One of the delegates (his neck adorned with a series of
platinum rings) produced a three-dimensional image of a
multi-breasted, scantily-clad Nur’Faxian beauty. Her
charms were, however, lost to Lloyd’s mammalian brain.
“Um, I’d rather have some human women, you know?”
“Who would you prefer? A starlet of Earth? A swimsuit
model? A perfect organic automaton, painstakingly
recreated in the semblance of the limbless
Venus-of-Milo? Our study of your planet’s informational
super-highway has given us great knowledge of your
tastes.”
“Nah, I’d rather have Becky White” Lloyd said, the name
of his high school cheerleader ex leaving his lips
before he had time to even think it. With a scan of his
mind and a clap of the Nur’Faxian delegation’s hands,
Becky materialized beside him, dressed in the
two-sizes-too-small outfit of her glory days, twelve
years older and thirty pounds heavier.
“Lloyd? Lloyd Layton? What the hell are you doing here?
And who are you with? Oh my God, are those the aliens
from-” Becky began but was suddenly silenced with a
telepathic command.
“Would you have anything more, Lloyd of the Laytons?”
“Do I?” Lloyd said, running behind the counter and going
through his duffel bag, where he kept his little diary
of people he wanted killed, stuff he wanted done and
things he desired but never had enough money for. In it
were the names of school bullies (now grown drunkards or
eternally grieving family men), degrees, awards and
nominations for things he had never gotten around to
doing (but considered himself worthy of anyway) and rows
upon rows of material goods that he secretly knew he
would never find any use for (yet had desperately
desired).
“They are all yours” the Nur’Faxians said, dropping
those things on lloyd’s feet. Lloyd’s knees went weak at
the sight of them.
He stuttered as he brought more Frappuchinos over in
exchange “You got yourselves a deal.”
The Nur’Faxians nodded in assent, conversed in their
mother-tongue a little bit longer and then said:
“You understand, of course, that we will require vast
amounts of this beverage. The Nur’Faxian Empire spans
nearly two galaxies, and we number in the quintillions.
We will require Earth to produce vast amounts of the
coffee to sate our appetites.”
“Um” Lloyd managed, his mind struggling with the
vastness of consumer demand laid on his feet. “I don’t
know if we could manage that, man, I mean we only make
this in Brazil or Argentina or someplace, we’d need
like, two planets’ worth of the stuff to even begin to
cover all this need for coffee.”
“Worry not your exalted head, Lloyd of the Laytons. My
colleagues have drawn a simple, yet efficient plan: we
will turn your planet into a vast coffee plantation,
after draining the oceans and ridding it of any
unnecessary fauna and flora. Two percent of the Earth’s
surface will be left untouched, to cover for the
habitation needs of your subjects.”
Lloyd thought it over, but for the life of him (even as
he looked into the wide, terrified eyes of Becky and
ignored the muffled pleas of his enemies), found that he
could not honestly care for the blight that he was about
to bring upon his own species. Suddenly, it hit him.
“Yeah, but where will I live? I’m gonna need some space,
man.”
“Your planet has a sizeable moon. We will adjust it
according to your specifications. We trust this is
alright with you?”
Lloyd thought of the magnificent view from his domed
moon-palace, the sight of Earth ruined, broken and
conditioned to fulfill his every command and reached out
to shake the hands of his benefactors. Their long
fingers had locked around his palm, squeezing it gently
yet firmly, when the President of the United States came
through the door with his personal security detail. He
stopped at the sight of Lloyd, the alien delegates and
the mound of crumbling gadgets that was massed in the
back of the store.
Finally, he managed a high-pitched, hysterical “Just
what the hell’s going on here, gentlemen?”… before he
and his detail were turned into miles of red, glistening
ribbons with a snap of the delegates’ fingers.
The takeover of Earth was over in a matter of minutes.
The Nur’Faxian battle-fleet materialized in LaGrange
space, bombarded Earth’s major population centers,
neutralized mankind’s nuclear capability and had
teleported ground troops to pick off two-thirds of the
population by 2 PM, Greenwich Mean Time.
Ecoforming of the Earth’s Moon was completed within two
days, while the draining of the oceans and the
re-location of the remaining third of mankind was
completed by the end of June, in time for Independence
Day.
And Lloyd Layton, who found himself reclining on his
baby-sealskin couch from his vantage point on the Sea of
Tranquility, looking down at the planet-wide coffee
crops manned by the last surviving members of his
species, did not for one moment stop to consider the
magnitude of his treason toward his kind and his planet.
He sipped instead at his Venti Frappuchino, ran his
fingers through Becky White’s hair (who had grown silent
and much more cooperative since her regulation lobotomy)
and thought how he had finally come out on top, the way
he had always thought he deserved.
END
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