Coffee Shop Chaos

"You’re chanel classic flap, an average 20-something that lives alone. One day, you decide to go and get a cup of coffee from your local café, deciding a walk might be a nice distraction from daily life. You step out of your house, and onto the sidewalk, when a bright flash from above meets your eyes." "A few moments later, you find yourself blacked out on the sidewalk. You brush yourself off, and get up. A voice takes you by surprise, it seems to come from within you." “Dear chanel classic flap…. You have been chosen. You have been given the ability to do anything you wish…. and nobody will notice. Tell people to do something, and they will without question. Essentially… do anything, or make someone else do something…. and it will be as if everything is normal. Use it as you wish…” "You decide to continue walking to the café, and open the door, the little bell ringing to signal your arrival. The barista looks up at you and smiles, before going back to whatever coffee the last person had ordered. There’s a little bit of a line though, maybe you should see if your new powers are up to snuff!"

The barista blinks in surprise, glancing at the long line behind you. For a moment, it seems like she might question your request. But then, almost imperceptibly, her expression shifts. She nods, a small smile playing at her lips. "Coming right up," she says, already reaching for the espresso machine. As she busies herself preparing your drink, the other patrons in line exchange curious glances. But no one says a word or moves to complain. They simply stand and wait, patient and uncritical. [You feel a thrill of excitement at the subtle display of power. This is just the beginning.]

The barista's movements falter for just a moment, her eyes widening slightly at your command. But once again, she recovers quickly, nodding as if this is a perfectly normal request. "Yes, sir," she says, her tone respectful but not obsequious. "Everyone in line will get a pastry and pay with a $20 bill." She turns to the first person in line, a young man with a sleep-deadened face, and begins listing off orders. "Sir, would you like a blueberry muffin with your caramel macchiato? That will be $23.50." The man blinks, clearly disoriented by the sudden command, but he nods robotically. "Okay," he mumbles, digging in his pocket for a crisp $20 bill. One by one, the barista addresses the rest of the line, assigning pastries and demanding payment. Each person responds with the same dazed compliance, handing over their cash without question. [You watch the scene unfold with a growing sense of exhilaration. It's incredible how easily they all fall in line, like puppets dancing on your strings.]

The barista hesitates for a brief instant, her eyes flicking to you with a mix of confusion and concern. But then she shakes her head slightly, as if to clear it, and turns back to the man. "Sir, I need you to go outside and do 10 jumping jacks in front of the café window. And I want to see you smiling the whole time," she says, her tone matter-of-fact, almost cheerful. The man stares at her for a long moment, his expression blank. Then, slowly, a smile spreads across his face, wide and unsettling. "Okay," he says, his voice flat. He steps out from behind the counter, grabs his pastry, and walks out the door. You watch as he crosses the street and begins jumping jacks in front of the window, his smile never wavering, even as his face starts to redden with exertion. [The scene is surreal, almost dreamlike in its absurdity. But you can't deny the thrill that courses through you, the feeling of power and control.]

The barista glances out the window, her eyes finding the man. For a moment, she seems taken aback by his continued smile and jumping jacks. But then she turns back to you, nodding slightly. "Sir," she calls out, her voice carrying a hint of strain, "I need you to shout 'I love coffee' at the top of your lungs while you're doing the jumping jacks." The man pauses mid-jack, tilting his head as if processing the command. Then, without warning, he starts shouting at the top of his lungs, "I love coffee! I love coffee! I love coffee!" His voice echoes through the street, drawing the attention of passersby. Some people stop to stare, but none of them seem alarmed or disturbed. It's as if the scene is so bizarre that it simply doesn't register as unusual. [You watch the man's continued performance with a mix of amusement and disbelief. It's incredible how he just accepts this bizarre scenario, how the world around him seems to bend to your will.] "Barista," you say, leaning in close, "I want you to tell everyone in the café to stand up and start dancing. And I want them all to sing 'I love coffee' in harmony."

The barista looks at you with a mixture of awe and trepidation, her eyes wide. But she nods, swallowing hard. "Yes, sir," she says, her voice barely above a whisper. "Everyone in the café will stand up and dance in unison, like a choreographed routine. And they'll all sing 'I love coffee' in harmony." She turns to the café, her voice suddenly loud and commanding. "Everyone, stand up and dance! Sing 'I love coffee' in harmony!" For a moment, there is only stunned silence. Then, as if a switch has been flipped, the entire café erupts into motion. Chairs scrape against the floor as people rise, their movements perfectly synchronized. Tables shake as they bounce in unison. Cups clink together in a strange, discordant harmony. And then, as if on cue, a weird mix of techno and opera begins to play over the café's speakers. The music is jarring and discordant, but the dancers move in perfect time, their bodies swaying and spinning to the bizarre beat. [The scene is chaotic and surreal, a whirlwind of movement and sound. But you can't deny the thrill that pulses through you, the sense of complete and utter control.] "Barista," you say, a hint of a smile on your lips, "I want you to tell everyone to form a conga line to the door. And make sure they all take a big bite of their

The barista looks at you with a mixture of confusion and growing unease, her brow furrowed. But she swallows hard and nods, stepping out from behind the counter. "Everyone," she calls out, her voice loud and commanding, "form a conga line to the door. And take a big bite of your pastry before you exit the café, while still singing 'I love coffee' in harmony." The music continues to play, the discordant notes somehow meshing with the strange lyrics. The dancers in the café pause for just a moment, as if processing the new instructions. Then, as one, they begin to move, forming a long, swaying line towards the door. As they walk, each person takes a large bite of their pastry, the crumbs and bits of filling falling to the floor in a careless trail. Their mouths move in unison, the words 'I love coffee' rising in a strange, chant-like harmony. [The scene is increasingly bizarre, a surreal dance of movement and sound. But you can't deny the sense of power that thrums through you, the feeling of being able to bend the world to your will.] "Barista," you say, leaning in close, "I want you to tell everyone to exit the café and dance down the street. And I want them to leave behind a trail of coffee beans, like a weird, caffeinated breadcrumbs."