MacDeath

By: Anthony Crafts

Narrated by: Virtual Voice

In Which the Coffee is Black, the Rain is Eternal, and the Future is a Joke

In the brooding city of Invercrane—where the buildings lean like they’re whispering secrets and the fog never quite clears its throat—a streetlamp flickered like it owed someone money. Somewhere, a crow laughed. Or choked. Hard to tell with crows.

Three figures stood in a semi-circle outside a coffee shop called The Weird Brew. It was two hours past closing, and the neon sign buzzed like a drunk bee trying to remember its name. The windows were fogged, smeared with occult symbols traced in espresso foam and, oddly, one perfectly drawn middle finger.

The baristas—Witch One, Witch Two, and Witch Three—wore matching black aprons, combat boots, and expressions that screamed “minimum wage isn’t worth this, but immortality has its perks.”

Witch One stirred a latte with a bone. “When shall we three meet again?”

Witch Two checked a cracked phone. “There’s a Slack notification for Thursday.”

Witch Three grinned, showing teeth too sharp for retail. “When the battle’s done, the stock has crashed, and the boardroom reeks of blood and toner.”

They cackled in unison, sounding like a catfight in a blender. A pedestrian walked by, immediately crossed the street, and pretended they hadn’t seen a cauldron bubbling in the gutter.

Above them, lightning split the sky like a corporate merger. Rain followed, greasy and gray, as if the clouds were trying to wash their hands of something unholy.

The witches toasted their coffee cups—one filled with goat milk, one with almond, and one with something that hissed when stirred.

“To Mac,” said Witch One.

“To the future king of… something grim and regrettable,” said Witch Two.

“To murder, mayhem, and really poor judgment,” added Witch Three.

The wind howled like it was trying out for a metal band. A rat the size of a small corgi scuttled by carrying a business card that read:

MAC—Regional Manager, Future Murderer (Prophesied)

And in the dark sky over Invercrane, the clouds whispered in ancient tongues, which roughly translated to:

This is going to be a mess.