Chapter 12

A bottle of champagne popped open. Cheers and joy erupted from the crowd. The big TV on the wall flashed with victory.

Everyone was cheering like it was someone's birthday. On the podium stood the man of the day—a young and charismatic man who had just been elected. He waved enthusiastically to the crowd.

"I couldn't have done it without your support. Especially you. Jean."

A portal opened behind him, and thousands of golden coins started pouring over the man and over the entire crowd.

"Clement! Clement!" cheered a crowd of men, all looking identical, all of them topless painters holding brushes.

"But no good deed goes unpunished," shouted the man on the podium as the coins slowly buried him underneath. "Behold the long arm of the law!"

Long, dark alien hands stretched out of the large portal, each one holding a pair of handcuffs. They floated downward, racing toward her. The man on the podium, buried deep in gold, pointed at her. All the painters in the crowd stared at her in disappointment.

She was alone. And everything smelled like warm, delicious coffee.

***

Jean woke up drenched in her own sweat. She was on her couch, in her living room. The Prankster was floating, holding the large espresso machine. All of the large windows of her apartment were stained with coffee. The carpet was drenched in coffee. The armchair was soaked with coffee.

"It smells so nice," Jean said, closing her eyes and taking a deep breath. "Darn, what kind of messed-up dream was that?"

She yawned once, twice, then rose from the couch.

The Prankster noticed her and froze on the spot. Then it dashed backward, hoping to reach back into its portal.

Too late.

A broomstick landed straight between the ring finger and the middle finger, causing it to swirl mid-air and land in the puddle next to the armchair. It tried to recover and swing back into the air, but the mighty force of a lady's heels stomped on its index finger, holding it in place.

"Not so fast, Prankster," Jean said, her cold eyes staring mercilessly at the hopeless alien hand.

Another portal opened on the other side of the living room, and the Caretaker emerged from it. It was holding a plateful of pizza.

"Don't you dare come to its rescue," Jean sneered at the Caretaker, spelling out every word like some terrifying mob boss.

The Prankster was left alone to face whatever awaited it. It tried to free itself, but failed. It stood there, trembling, awaiting punishment.

After a 15-hit combo with the broomstick, the Prankster was given back its freedom. Or so Jean thought. As the Prankster tried to finally retreat into the portal, it stopped short. The Caretaker was now blocking the way.

The two hands stared at one another for a few seconds. The Caretaker pointed with a firm finger, and the Prankster dropped in submission.

For the next hour or so, Jean drank her morning coffee as she watched the Prankster clean the whole place, wiping the windows clean and scrubbing the stains from the furniture.

The result of the cleaning was certainly mediocre. Those stains weren't going away that easily.

But she was satisfied.

Jean knew she was going to be late opening the café. She didn't mind. But under the morning sun, she found the usual topless artist painting across the street from Jean's Café.

"Morning, John!" she greeted.

"Jean!" he replied. "I thought you were sick; I was just about to go check on you."

"C'mon, you're the one who said 'late' is no longer a thing."

"Haha, it's true. I didn't expect you to believe in it though!"

They laughed, and Jean drew closer, checking out his canvas.

"What is this—"

A gingerbread building was drawn on the canvas, with pillars of cake and sugar windows. Sweets of all colors decorated the entire place. In front, a large cartoonish pink and fluffy bear stood with open arms while a cup of coffee sat on its big belly in an awkward position.

The bear had blonde hair kept in a tight ponytail down its back. Above it was the big sign at the entrance of the gingerbread building, large letters made with candy canes and lollipops. It said "Jean's Café".

"What on earth—" Jean was speechless.

She turned back to John, then back to the pink fluffy bear. With every glance back and forth, her expression grew more and more indignant, her brow furrowing into a frown, yet her lips turning into an awkward smile.

"Is that how you see me, you little prick?" she laughed with a grin.

"Hey, my hair—" squealed John.

With one outstretched hand she started ruffling John’s flowy hair like it was some sort of punishment. He tried to duck away from her hand, but to no avail. The hand followed, like a merciless tornado, turning every strand of hair upside down.

"How dare you compare me to some fluffy, cute teddy bear!" she added, still ruffling his hair.

She stopped, her hand still in John's now unruly hair. Her eyes lingered on the strands of hair between her fingers. It was soft to the touch, fluffy in a sense.

"Cute teddy bear..." she whispered, as she had just realized something.

"Uh, Jean...?" John added, glancing from Jean back to her hand on top of his head.

"Agh!" she screeched and abruptly withdrew her hand.

She straightened her back and held her head high. With cheeks flushing red, she started to march toward the café, avoiding John's stare.

"Ah—Well—Anyway, enough chit-chat, let's go inside if you're done with your painting."

John laughed and watched her as she drew further away. And as he gathered his things, he took the pink brush one more time and drew a little blush on the fluffy bear's cheeks.

"Much better," he whispered in satisfaction.