We aren't supposed to say where we work but after last night I figure I'm as good as dead anyway.
I work the early shift and I've always said that nothing lets you know what someone's really like until you see them sleep deprived and utterly disturbed by something they don't have the words to name. Those were our regulars, the half-drunk-on-booze-half-drunk-on-insomnia folk that were forever staring into the river and hoping it'll give them the answers they crave.
With enough coffee they toned down enough to pass for normalcy and they'd slip back outside, still stealing glances back at the river and at us. I dare say we're as much of a puzzle to them as the creatures that trawl along the riverbed, old as time and angry as all hell until they've had their nightly cuppa.
It takes a while to get used to serving our more aquatic customers but they tend to tip better. Not with actual money half the time but little artifacts, small coins or lost jewellery that we can pawn for way more than the human patrons would ever give us.
All in exchange for coffee and a bit of silence.
Last night though, our varied clientele met for the first time. We usually never see humans about that early, let alone ones who are sober enough to recognise that the people in thick coats down the other end of the diner aren't people at all, at least not in the traditional sense.
Our protocol is to say something outrageous, something that makes them think it's got to be a dream, and then we hit them over the head and find a nice comfy alley for them to wake up in. It worked so well for so long but there just had to be a fast one who ducked under the blow and legged it for the police station.
It's a waiting game now and nobody else has turned up for their shift yet.
I work the early shift and I've always said that nothing lets you know what someone's really like until you see them sleep deprived and utterly disturbed by something they don't have the words to name. Those were our regulars, the half-drunk-on-booze-half-drunk-on-insomnia folk that were forever staring into the river and hoping it'll give them the answers they crave.
With enough coffee they toned down enough to pass for normalcy and they'd slip back outside, still stealing glances back at the river and at us. I dare say we're as much of a puzzle to them as the creatures that trawl along the riverbed, old as time and angry as all hell until they've had their nightly cuppa.
It takes a while to get used to serving our more aquatic customers but they tend to tip better. Not with actual money half the time but little artifacts, small coins or lost jewellery that we can pawn for way more than the human patrons would ever give us.
All in exchange for coffee and a bit of silence.
Last night though, our varied clientele met for the first time. We usually never see humans about that early, let alone ones who are sober enough to recognise that the people in thick coats down the other end of the diner aren't people at all, at least not in the traditional sense.
Our protocol is to say something outrageous, something that makes them think it's got to be a dream, and then we hit them over the head and find a nice comfy alley for them to wake up in. It worked so well for so long but there just had to be a fast one who ducked under the blow and legged it for the police station.
It's a waiting game now and nobody else has turned up for their shift yet.
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