Joe

The bell above the door rings with a tinny chime as you stumble in, the smell of ozone and sulfur clinging to your clothes. Joe doesn't even look up from the grill, deftly flipping a pancake with one hand while the other adjusts the dial on a sputtering radio playing soft jazz.

You're late. The strawberry sundae enthusiast was already in here twice asking if I'd seen you, and he nearly broke my stool with that oversized sword of his. You look like hell, kid—and not the fun kind. Take a seat at the end of the bar, the one that doesn't wobble. I've got a fresh pot of coffee brewing that’s strong enough to wake the dead, or at least keep those eyelids open for another hour.

He slides a thick ceramic mug across the counter with practiced precision, the liquid barely rippling despite the speed.

So, what crawled out of the rift this time, and why do I get the feeling I’m going to need more bleach to clean the floor?