The Electric Drop Cafe - Cyberonics
As a break from fetching and carrying while tending to Miss Smyth-Brown, Saint Nicholas had dropped in on Mongrel at the headquarters of the God’s Hitmen Motorcycle Club. But the President and his wife were preoccupied with planning a campaign to show a rival outlaw motorcycle gang the error of their ways.
It simply wasn’t the Will of God for the Devil’s Henchmen Motorcycle Club to muscle in on Hell Street and the ghetto of Hades â€“ despite their names. But such seemed to be the intent of the Henchmen and their club patron, Satan. Who had probably encouraged them to take over The Cold Drop CafÃ©, the unofficial headquarters and alternative drinking hole of the Hitmen.Â Thus a turf war was in the wind â€“ which Saint Nicholas understood to mean a dispute over who was going to cut the grass before a game began, with the Hitmen batting for God, and the Henchmen for Satan.
“Why don’t you check out that new joint?” That Bitch said to Saint Nicholas. “I think it’s called The Electric Drop CafÃ©. It might have some half-decent coffee.”
“It’s full of geeks, dorks and wankers!” Mongrel scoffed dismissively; and he returned to planning the pre-emptive strike against the Devil’s Henchmen‘s headquarters on Heaven Road, in the distant suburb of Eden. “Bloody wankers!” he growled, sweeping aside his field marshal’s baton â€“ a Colt 45 â€“ from the street directory. He glanced at Saint Nicholas. “That cafÃ© is chock-a-block with dickheads! But check it out for yourself. You never know, but that bit of skirt you’ve been looking for might just be there.”
The saint did not understand Mongrel’s last remark. He wasn’t looking for either a bit of skirt or a whole one. He wasn’t a cross-dresser. Not that he was being judgmental about those with confused inclinations regarding clothing. He was looking for Ms Right. And she was unlikely to be wearing such an item of dress, given that she’d be riding a motorcycle â€“ probably a black one, as he did. However, he did allow the possibility that she’d be straddling a pink machine â€“ naturally, in black leather jacket and jeans. But she might be checking out the new cafÃ© in hope of finding him.
Shortly afterwards he’d roared up to the establishment, parked his bike and entered The Electric Drop CafÃ©. A waitress was bustling around taking orders and serving the sacred coffee fluid to those sitting transfixed before computer screens. A quick scan of those present established that there was no drop-dead-gorgeous female bike rider searching for him with adoring eyes. Nor could Saint Nicholas discern those mysterious entities which Mongrel had mentioned: geeks, dorks and wankers.
He’d formed the impression that such were some form of low-life insects. Or possibly three sorts of electronic virus that he’d heard computers suffered from. Probably doing battle with the electric Trojans he’d also heard about. The Trojans he assumed were types of doctors who ate mysterious electronic cookies and spam while on a fast hard drive into cyber space to surf the internet or web. However, why electronic Greeks would be surfing an electronic spider’s web or into a net was beyond him. Unless they were searching for an electric Helen of Troy. Even so, one gets tangled in nets, which made surfing them totally counterproductive.
Of course, none of it made any sense to Saint Nicholas. It just had to be pure madness. Unless all those in the cafÃ© were on drugs and lost in hallucinogenic dreams. This was a distinct possibility. Except for him, all those in The Electronic Drop CafÃ© appeared to be under the age of thirty. They sat with big saucer eyes fixed hypnotically on computer screens, drooling from the mouth while their fingers fluttered on keyboards. If they weren’t in a drug-crazed state, they were suffering from a new type of dementia â€“ still to be identified as cyberonics
The saint had a perfectly good dementia of his own and didn’t need another one. Being on the alert, cyberonics wouldn’t affect him. Nevertheless, he gritted his teeth as he sat down on the only vacant seat which, of course, was in front of a computer. There was only barely enough room for his mug of skinny flat white coffee to perch beside the keyboard.
The cursor on the screen pulsed in steady blinks â€“ a cryptic language that did not convey its message in the dots and dashes of Morse Code, with which he was familiar. Thus he did not understand what the cursor was trying to say. But because it was blinking in an elongated white box marked Google, that just had to be its name.
He took a sip of coffee for inspiration while fathoming it all out. Concentrating heavily on the cursor, he idly set down the mug. It tipped and spilled half of the coffee into the keyboard. However, such a generous libation of caffeine did not sufficiently lubricate the throat of Google for it to speak in a plain tongue â€“ one which he could understand. Obviously, it needed to be notified that they were not speaking the same language, despite supping coffee together. Just as obviously, the letters on the keyboard were there for him to communicate with Google.
‘I don’t understand,’ typed Saint Nicholas, and he pressed the Enter key which had caught his eye. It was the magic button to stir the cursor into action. The screen immediately changed. Google listed 698,000,000 answers – beginning with Humans Do Not Understand Mirror Reflections, Say Researchers – to his statement ‘I don’t understand‘. The sheer enormity of 698 million humans not understanding mirror reflections astounded the saint. But then, there were now 698 million plus one who didn’t. Indeed, Saint Nicholas did not understand Google’s answer at all.
Inadvertently, his index finger pressed a key and the screen changed again. Up came someone called Viagra to restore his erections. But he didn’t know a lady by that name, and he didn’t need his erections restored, let alone by a complete stranger. Such was a strictly private matter between him and his private parts.
He nudged the mouse â€“ it wasn’t a plastic rodent after all. But now Google was blinking above the small picture of a house, marked Home. Remembering Buddha’s last words to him: Go home! he pressed Enter once more. And he was back where he had started.
‘God,’ typed the saint, and pressed the magic Enter key. And his new acquaintance, Google listed 545,000,000 replies to God. He was dumbfounded to see that God had received 545 million responses to some unspecified question. Why hadn’t he been asked? This did not auger well! And another inadvertent slip of the index finger resulted in Sister Virginia’s Escorts heading a list of un-ecclesiastical sounding offerings. Mother Superior’s House of Fun Times had a sentence underneath it promising most un-nunlike missionary methods. And Father Long John’s penis enhancement to improve performance was â€¦. was unthinkable!
Saint Nicholas typed in ‘Buddha’, and that electronic agent of Satan â€“ Google â€“ listed 37,200,000 results. It included Honest John Buddha’s Used Cars, promising the best deal in heaven and on earth. Which was followed by Buddha’s Nubile Teenagers for the ultimate transcendental experience. And Viagra as Recommended by Buddha was at the bottom of the page to promise enhanced performance, with her satisfaction guaranteed.Â Repositioning Google above Home, sent the remainder of the saint’s coffee into the keyboard.
Saint Nicholas rose up to leave The Electric Drop CafÃ©. It wasn’t his cup of tea, in a manner of speaking. It was full of mesmerized young people suffering from cyberonics dementia, using sick computers afflicted with an electronic virus treated by Trojan doctors. Computers with an insane pervert called Google teaming up with some debauched woman named Viagra to offer depraved nuns, an unfrocked priest and the Lord Buddha’s very own nubile and corrupted teenagers. All along with Buddha’s used cars â€“ an obvious lie, for the Enlightened One rode in fourth class on the top of trains in India.
This coffee emporium, being for the demented and the depraved, was most definitely unsuitable for saints, let alone Ms Right. But it did seem perfectly suited for The Devil’s Henchmen Motorcycle Club. Saint Nicholas would make this suggestion to Mongrel for him to pass on the information as a peace offering to the President of that club. For if the Henchmen relocated to The Electric Drop CafÃ©, it would once more return The Cold Drop CafÃ© to the arms of the God’s Hitmen Motorcycle Club. And there would be no need to cut the grass for a game between the rival clubs.
Tales from the Divine Drop Cafes