“Ouch.”

“Ouch?” My boss, a baboon of a man called Wilbur Wilmots, stared over the rim of his circular glasses. “Is that all you have to say? No wonder the quality of your articles has plummeted.”

“Ouch,” I said again.

“Readers want insight, direction. They demand cutting-edge analysis on the state of the tech industry, not a three-page spread on how eleven-year-olds use emoji.” He leafed through printouts of my recent articles while a frown slowly annexed his greasy brow. “Prostitutes’ Preference for Bitcoin. Or how about this beauty? Groundbreaking VR Simulator Allows Users to Experience Life as a Potato.” He allowed a moment for the headline to shrivel and die before saying, “How exactly is that groundbreaking?”

“It’s a pun. Takes a couple of months for the shoots to pierce the soil, but the development of the root system can be quite enchanting.”

He shook his head.

“Mr. Wilmots, if I could j—”

“And what’s this nonsense?” He slammed another article onto the surface of his oak-rimmed leather desktop. “Smartphones Cause Cancer? Jesus, man, it’s not the nineties. Nobody wants to read that crap.”

I shuffled in my seat. “Everything causes cancer.”

“Everything except bloody smartphones! The technology has advanced one or two steps in the last twenty years, but you’d know that if you’d done your research.” He tapped the printouts on his closed laptop, then crumpled them into ideal projectiles I could fire at his stupid head. Before I had a chance to make that dream a reality, he discarded them.

“I’m sorry, but this is a serious business. Our columnists have to demonstrate, month on month, that they can add value to our brand.”

He rifled through another sheaf of my output as if scouring it for even the smallest reason to keep me on staff, but I knew he had already reached a decision. The exasperated look he shot me, and the almost sincere pity etched into his tiny baboon-eyes, were all I needed to predict his next words. “I regret to inform you …”

So ended my career as a tech blogger. I say ‘career’, but you know what I mean. Nobody has a career any more. We all just flit from one short-term job to another, convincing ourselves this is our calling—what we were ‘meant’ to do. Or at least, that’s what we have to say to pass the interview. I’d talked myself into similar bullshit a dozen times, strapping on one lifelong ambition after another like a series of increasingly humiliating gimp suits. Lifelong ambition: as determined by my perception of the quickest way to get paid. My goals seemed attainable. Spoiler: they weren’t. Photographer in London became photographer’s assistant in some nameless backwater. Underwear model in Milan became voiceover actor for the adult entertainment industry—and not in Milan. It’s amazing what kind of work you can get without ever leaving your apartment. One thing’s for certain: that year, my neighbours sure thought I had a lot of sex.

If they only knew.

Shrugging, I put my back to the office I had set foot in only twice since my employment started, six months ago. I’d have cleared out my desk, but Mr. Wilmots didn’t believe in desks. Not for anyone else, at least. Half of us worked from whatever cafe happened to be closest. “Free wi-fi? Great! Shitty coffee? I’ll take three.” I’d heard it a thousand times, huddled on the faded, ripped cushions of benches with others of my curious kind. Faces up-lit like villains, we’d tap furiously on our devices while jittering fingers ordered more caffeinated sludge.

Not me, though. That’s the one thing I never skimp on. Coffee is sacred. It’s what gets me through my progressively more ludicrous array of career choices and the absurd nightmares they result in.

A tiny voice at the back of my mind chuckled.

“Shut up, Bank Balance.”

I trudged down the street while Bank Balance issued statements of accounts I had no interest in. Worse—I had diminishing equity in.

“I’m wasting away.” He tutted. “Three days left on your lease. No cash for next month. What now? Astronaut? Ballerina?” He laughed his fat-cat laugh. “Another job, another city. Another failure.”

Much as I hated him, Bank Balance was right. The fucker always was.

Winter added its sting to my many concerns. At least I had my trusty mittens. I pulled them on and plodded down Loser Street, Aimless Alley, anda dozen other identical thoroughfares. Slab-fronted office buildings formed an honour guard to my dejected exit from the business district.

Before leaving Mr. Wilmots’ corporate lair, I’d grabbed a handful of flyers from reception. Had to take something. The office of a bigwig tycoon for twenty different news sites draws notice. Attention equals advertising. Most still arrive as junk emails he’ll never see, but a few—sent by promoters smart enough to bypass the spam-box, and not smart enough to realise flyers can be just as easily ignored—are hand-delivered.

Paper is comforting. Throughout history, little rough-textured sheets and the infinite combinations of text in all languages have educated minds, entertained millions, toppled empires. Now, the same glorious text is used only to LOLcat. That’s a verb, apparently. People read on screens these days. Paper is relegated to hawking all manner of bullshit, but one in a hundred is worth heeding. Maybe a rival website seeking fresh talent? I sifted through the pile. “Viagra; Viagra; Viagra; Free Tennis Lessons; Viagra; Viagra; Learn to Tango; Viagra; Viagra …”

One caught my eye. A pattern of pale blue circuitry formed a background to the silhouette of a man’s head, cables trailing from his hair like speed lines. I read the banner. ‘Calling Intrepid Gadgeteers for Pioneering Beta Test Group.’

“Hmm.”

Lower down, another line jumped out at me. ‘Top rates paid to all participants.’

“Hmmmm.”

My scrutiny—and perhaps my dignity—drooped towards the contact information at the bottom.

“Fuck it.” I reached for my phone.

A sudden wind blasted me. Whipped from my mittens, the papers whirled through the air like A5 snowflakes. “Hey!” I flailed like a madman, but the flyers lived up to their name. Enjoying greater circulation than in their distributors’ wildest fever-dreams, they blustered in a squall that scattered them in all directions.

Despite my grasping, my mittens secured no victories. Defeat—I knew it well. I tucked my hands into my coat pockets and continued my long march home.

Home—at least I still had one. Tick tock.

The wind picked up again. I raised the collar of my threadbare coat and hurried towards a pedestrian crossing. Another gust unsettled a flock of my dis-enmittened leaflets from the windscreens of cars I would never be able to afford. I strained to catch sight of my quarry, but my flaccid efforts sagged amidst the multiple promises of rock-hard erections.

Part of me regretted adding to the city’s litter problem, but, so widely dispersed, I’d have to be superhuman to collect them. That, or a street-sweeper. I added it to my list of potential next career moves.

I arrived at the crossing, checked each way, and stepped off the path beside an old-style post-box. Like an unseen super-villain had selected me for taunting, a flyer, sticky with drain water, zeroed in on my eyes and latched on like a face-hugger. Cars honked their horns. Blinded, I stumbled backwards, clipped my heel on the kerb and landed on my arse with a thud. The impact jerked my head back, slamming my skull against the post-box.

With a groan, I peeled the soggy super-weapon off my face and crumpled it. About to fling it away, a voice startled me.

“Mummy, look at the homeless man.”

A little girl pointed. No older than five, she stared at me as if I were a zoo animal while her mother chinwagged with another woman.

“Mummy, look!”

Her mother glancedsideways. A gawp of disgust mutated her carefully applied make-up. “Get away from him. You don’t know where he’s been.” She grabbed her daughter and spun her around. “He could have all manner of diseases.”

The little girl gasped. She stuck her tongue out at me before her mother dragged her away, glaring over her shoulder. I’d seen that look before: You should know better. You should have made more of yourself. You should have done whatever the fuck.

And maybe I should have.

I pushed up from the wet ground, inching my spine against the welcome buttress of the post-box; my persecutor’s silent minion.

Passers-by branded me with disapproving glares.

The offending flyer still in my hand, I un-crumpled it. Another voice in my mind, though less cynical than Bank Balance, whispered, “Who knows? Maybe that lucrative beta test group is still an option.” Without needing to read the text, I saw it was not, but a new headline caught my eye. ‘World’s Best Coffee’.

Sure. They all say that. Compared to what, specifically? As determined by whom, my analytical brain demanded.

I continued to read. ‘Personally selected by Richmond Pim, Chief Editor and Coffee Tzar of Caffeine Unlimited.’

“The Richmond Pim?”

The next line sold it. ‘Free regular coffee for all customers who sign up for our loyalty card.’

My inner scrounger whooped.

The pedant in me noticed the coffee’s predetermined volume: regular. Why always regular? If I can get a regular, why can’t I get an irregular? How about an atypical? Still, free coffee was free coffee. In no position to turn down charity, I read the address. Parlour Street. “That’s on my way home.”

Destination set.

* * * * *

A chime twanged as I pushed open the larch-panelled door of Café de la Pim. Aromas of jasmine, chai and cinnamon intermingled with java and smooth Brazilian Santos. Oversized sepia-tinted bulbs dangled from the ends of brass chains like low-hanging incandescent testicles. Tiles the size of postage stamps blanketed the walls to about waist-height, above which, frameless black-and-white prints displayed dramatic images of flamenco dancers.

Charming and uncrowded, I allowed its ambience to seduce me into believing I was stilla person who could afford nice things. With a shrug, I decided to drown mysorrows in the only vice available to me. That way, I could while away the afternoon desperately plotting my next futile endeavour.

A cluster of monochromatic business-types raised their heads when I squelched in their direction. My clothing muddy and sodden, I knew what they thought of me even before their expressions curdled. Such disgust no longer bothered me. Before long, they’d be back in their homogenous cubicles with their homogenous colleagues, clicking on identical keyboards, wearing matching ties like they’d just rolled off a production line. “Enjoy your regular coffees,” I said. Fucking drones.

A young waitress, auburn hair wrapped in a tight bun, looked up from cleaning the percolator and spat her gum into a bin as I approached the counter. “Sit wherever you like. I’ll be with you in a tick.”

Candles flickered in red wax-stained jars on tables along the opposite wall, illuminating alcoves where I’d have a degree of privacy. I decided to stake my claim to one before the lunch crowd swarmed. Some early snackers had already annexed a booth by the far end. More business drones ruffled newspapers in seats by the front window. Glad to be indoors, I sank onto the horseshoe-ringed leather cushions of a secluded alcove and browsed the overpopulated list of brews.

A moment later, the waitress’ pleasing shadow darkened the menu. Soft candlelight glinted on hername-badge—Diane—under which, a lacy pink bra peeked through her translucent blouse. See-through clothing: another reason to remain a while.

She eyed my muddy shirt. “Rough day?”

“I’ve had better.”

“No brooding in this establishment. House rules.” She winked. “What’ll it be?”

“Something atypical.”

“Huh?”

“Never mind.” After scanning only a third of the blends, I picked one at random. “Ethiopian Sidamo, and can I sign up for your loyaltycard?”

“You got it.” She spun on her heel. Black tights outlined her shapely thighs.

Despite my self-pity, I grinned as she hurried away.

Thirty minutes later, caffeine flooding my veins, I ordered my fourth and settled in to check my Twitter feed.

#WilburWilmots awarded editor of the year. #OMG

#WilburWilmotsFoundation saves orphanage. #MyHero

#WilburBloodyWilmots wins poxy achievement for outstanding frickin’ excellence. #Legend

I clenched my fingers around the phone’s cheap case, wishing it were a newspaper so I might crush it. I could always remove the device, then vent my frustration on the rubbery enclosure, but even if I pounded it with all my might, the stupid thing would retain its shape. Fucking polyurethane. For the briefest of moments, I considered hurling the phone against the wall, but, out of a job, a replacement might cost me a fortnight in whatever temporary accommodation I could find.

Wired from caffeine, I stayed my phone’s execution and plonked it on the table, strained the dregs from my cup, and ordered a fifth. The entrance chime dinged. I peered from my alcove to see a man holding the door for a lady. Another couple entered after them, and the noise level in the cafe doubled. I rapped my fingers on the tabletop while my left leg quivered, rattling the unused cutlery.

A further ding announced the arrival of another man. Busy at the till, Diane had yet to begin brewing my fifth Sidamo. If Café de la Pim employed anyone else, they were master-adepts at hiding. Impatient, I poked my head out to gauge the likely delay caused by the influx of customers.

The last man to enter, a chap in his early thirties, strode to the counter and swept the cowboy hat off his jet-black hair. With a practiced flourish, he whisked the ends of his trench coat to one side and hopped onto a stool.

Beneath his long coat lay a black t-shirt decorated with the silhouette of an octopus. One tentacle ended in a USB connector. Puzzled by the Cthulu-esque imprint, I stilled my jumpy leg and focused on him.

He darted his head to the left, blinked, then flicked his gaze right, before frowning as if he had forgotten why he had come.

Diane, showing no signs of hurry, squinted at her latest customer. “You okay, hon?”

The man jerked to attention. “Interesting question.” He laid his palms on the bar. “Is any of us okay? What are the parameters?”

“I got your parameters right here, pal.” She shoved a menu into his hands. “Presented in black and white. Let me know when you’re ready to order.”

Like a child, the USB cowboy read the words printed on the faux leather cover. “List. Of. Pies.” He raised his head and smiled. “Yes. I’ll have that, please.”

Diane’s brow knitted. “You already have it. What’s listed, we have. What isn’t, we don’t. The special is apricot tart.”

“What’s so special about it?”

“Shitloads of cinnamon. You want to order or not?”

The man gazed at the menu. “My good lady, you’ve left me with quite the conundrum.” His expression fell like he was about to reveal his darkest secret. He leaned over the counter. “It all sounds so delicious, but you see, I lack a digestive system, so all of this is rather moot.”

Diane glanced sideways at another customer, who shrugged. “Okay, hun. I’ll bring you a coffee until you decide.”

“That would be delightful. Fluids, I can process.” He rubbed his hands before the door chime distracted him and he spun towards the entrance.

Two thugs in leather jackets barged in, bandanas drawn over their faces.

“Nobody move!” The taller of the two brandished a revolver while the other raced towards the bar.

People screamed.

I gripped the edge of my seat, inching deeper into the shadows of the alcove.

The taller man waved his gun. “Shut the hell up! If no one does anything stupid, this’ll all be over before your lattes get cold.” He shouted to his cohort. “Get the cash-drawer open.”

His compadre drew a gun. The barrel directed straight at her, Diane edged away.

“Open it.” He nudged the muzzle towards the register.

The customer in the trench coat set down the list of pies beside his cowboy hat and tapped the thief on the shoulder. “My good fellow, has anyone ever told you your manners are in shocking need of refinement?”

“Shut it, or I’ll stick this in your mouth and tickle the back of your skull.”

“Yes, that’s a possibility. Here’s another.”

Quicker than I could perceive, the cowboy with no digestive system leapt from his seat. In one smooth motion, he grabbed the thief’s wrist, twisted his arm behind his back and jabbed two fingers into a pressure point below his jaw. Before the thug could scream, his gun changed hands. A bullet fired straight at his accomplice by the doorway. A red blot between his eyes marked the entry wound.

The would-be bandit slumped to the floor. Shocked faces gaped from behind newspapers and under tables. My heart pummelled my ribcage like an over-zealous power-drill with something to prove.

The surviving thug wailed as his surprise assailant dug his fingers into the soft tissue under his jaw. His back against the customer who had apprehended him, one arm twisted in paralysis between them, he floundered with his free hand.

The cowboy blew non-existent smoke from the end of the gun. He looked over his shoulder at Diane, whose expression had bleached to a whiter shade than her blouse. “Here.” He pressed the revolver into her shaking hands. “Best you hang onto this.”

Diane dropped the weapon by the till with a clatter, wide eyes fixed on the taller thief who lay dead on her floor. “You … You shot him.”

“It’s fine.”

“Fine?” Diane drew back from the counter. “I’m calling the police.”

“Give them my regards.” Our saviour trained his attention on his captive. The desperate man’s free arm grasped for purchase while a tight grip squeezed his airway. He flung his arm up a final time and knocked the cowboy hat from the counter, before his eyes glazed and he sagged into unconsciousness.

The hat’s owner sighed.

Peering from behind my menu, I caught his eye. Twin peepers blazed at me like electric-blue marbles. Try as I might, I could not avoid his stare.

He nodded at his fallen headgear. “Grab that for me, would you?”

I froze.

While our rescuer focused his attention on me, customers fled.

He curled his upper lip. “Well?”

I set a benumbed foot on the tiles and left the safety of my alcove. The cafe spun. I grasped the table for support, and stretched across the aisle to retrieve his absurd Stetson.

Calm as a Hindu cow, he watched while I scooped it up. Maybe he really was a cowboy. Who else could react so quickly to a life-threatening situation, or be so unruffled by takinga life?

Maintaining my distance, I stretched the hat towards him, wishing I had never read that flyer.

With the one-sided smile of a consummate rancher, he skimmed the inner rim around his index finger, whipped the Stetson from my hands and flicked it into the air. It tumbled three times before landing squarely on his short-cropped hair. The rim obscuring his face, he tipped it up, then hauled me onto the stool beside him. And that’s when I met …

“Bab Sabcot, android adventurer.”

“If you say so.”

He offered his hand.

I inspected his outstretched fingers—not the roughened skin one might expect from a herdsman. Nervous about what might happen if I refused his gesture, I accepted it, and winced. “That’s quite a grip you have, Bab.”

He shook his head. “Bab Sabcot.”

“That’s what I said.”

“No it isn’t.”

“Mr. Sabcot?”

“Bab Sabcot.”

I rubbed my temples to dispel the growing confusion. “Bab Sabcot it is.”

He smiled, revealing a perfect set of gleaming white teeth. “I like you. How’s about you be my sidekick: General E Awesome?”

“Sorry, but I could never tolerate being named after a pun on an adverb.” That, and a hundred other reasons.

“Oh, come on.”

“Actually, my name is—”

“Shhh, General.” He draped an arm around my shoulder and swept a conspiratorial glance to each side, then leaned close and whispered, “Our nemesis might be listening.” Setting a foot on a nearby chair, he jabbed a finger skyward. “We must away before he sends more of his minions. Come!”

“Wait,” Diane called. “The police will want to question you.”

“Have them Skype me. My username’s CuddlyKitten78.”

“Wow,” she said. “I never realised there were so many cuddly kittens on Skype.”

“I know. And only one of them’s a real cat.” He flicked the ends of his coat and made for the exit. A spring in his step, he paid no heed to the body of the man he had shot. “Come, General!”

Diane sucked air through clenched teeth. “You’re not going with him, are you?”

“I—”

About to wave him off as a loony, a voice in my head spoke up. “Why not? Have yousomething better to do?”

“Is that you, Bank Balance?”

“Think of it this way: he just prevented a robbery. You were an eyewitness. If you go back to Wilmots with a good story, you might get your job back. Think of the headline: Loony Robot Cowboy Foils Armed Robbery.”

“Hmm.”

“In fact, to hell with Wilmots. Start your own damn news site!”

“Hmmmm.” The mechanical mystery man almost at the exit, I hesitated.

“Even if it comes to nothing, it might be a fun way to spend an afternoon. The opportunity expires in five, four, three …”

I raced after him. “Mr, eh … Bab Sabcot. Wait!”