John Marshall sat on a bench on the waterfront of Seattle’s Pike Place Market.  He couldn’t remember the last time he wasn’t pissed.  Even when he had something that worked out his way, John could easily find a reason to gravitate towards hostility.  It was such an effective way to manage the fucking idiots who populated his world.  Today, and many other days, the pissing event was the fact that his bitch ex-wife’s name kept popping up in his world.  It made him feel cursed.  
 

Victoria’s opening a fetish, John read the word fetish as “kinko fuck crazy” club, had been bad enough, but to make the damned thing successful, that was infuriating beyond his ability to manage.  To have the club rake in so fucking much money, for screwing, was more than he could stand; her rejection of his warning was rubbing his nose in it even worse.  
It seemed like at least once a month some political hack from the city, or county, or even state legislature came to him with insinuation or outright condemnation and demanded to know why he didn’t do something about the growing “sex trade” that was overtaking his emerald city of Seattle.  
 

Marshall glared at his hapless assistant, Scott Hunter, who seemed barely able to wander toward him down the wharf.  The pin headed idiot had two large, carry out coffee cups.  Marshall struggled to see what color of cup Hunter had; if they were the ubiquitous Starbuck’s white and green he might just explode.  Somewhere in the back of his head, he knew it was a no win game for Hunter, no matter what commercial coffee the assistant brought it would be wrong.  For him, Starbucks was over roasted diesel fuel; Tully’s coffee’s milder roasting was for pussy boys; Seattle’s Best and their fucking red cups, was bland and over roasted.  Hell, even Peets coffee sucked.  Christ, with a coffee store perched on every fucking half block, the idiot still picked the tourist-centric, mass market sludge from the corporate vendors.  No true citizen of Seattle would be seen drinking any of the big store swill.  He wouldn’t force that shit on the homeless, if indeed he would ever do anything for someone homeless, unless a television camera was around.
 

Finally, the cups came into focus.  He was carrying Starbucks.  For that moment, Starbucks was the bottom of the bin quality coffee in the universe of the mystical dark bean.  It didn’t occur to him that if Hunter had picked Seattle’s Best, then that would have been the worst choice.
 

The instant John was done with the little out of the way meeting he would head to the best coffee shop in town and most likely the world.  It was a small two-store operation based in Queen Anne called the Uptown Coffee Shop.  It was the elite coffee store in all of the Seattle area.  The store he preferred was actually hard to find; snuggled up to the movie theatre in Queen Anne.  Uptown was a Hollywood worthy perfect set piece of caffeine commerce.  The grungy store held the DNA of the prototype flawless coffee emporium.  Worn in, like perfect jeans, a mix of people that could be found nowhere else on the planet.  It wasn’t some intended ambiance.  The store was simply a genuine shrine to the worship of the shrub of the bean.  
 

John waited for his assistant and distracted himself as he looked forward to when he would step through the door to an alternate universe to see a thick wooden counter that was the alter to espresso.  In truth, like most great establishments, the place was a dive with mismatched cups and people luxuriating in their frothing caffeine addiction.  Where else could you sit at a table full of such a divergent group of men and women.   This is where two thousand dollar suits sipped alongside honest to god, human mountains of hell’s angels, next to some young over pierced Goth chick holding court with a drag queen and a burn-out as they all discussed the virtues of decaffeination processes.  At another table a college Prof from U Dub would be happily lusting after his four shots of espresso even more than he would the latte -sipping specter of depressed young girl who pretended that vampires stayed up all night.  
 

John felt his rage build as he considered the potential fate of his favorite store.  The Uptown was a unique place in Seattle; a truly independent coffee store.  The eight hundred pound caffeinated gorilla that was Starbucks had been on an acquisition binge.  John had recently read that, not long ago, Starbucks bought controlling interest in Tully’s Coffee.  The mermaid of coffee had committed to not destroy Tully’s coffee, but that was still to be seen.  
 

Recently, Starbucks had used it financial muscle to take over Seattle’s Best.  In John’s ruthless mind, Starbucks was the enemy for the coffee drinking tribes in Seattle; it was just another sign of the apocalypse.  It was as if Starbucks, realizing that the only thing they brought to the coffee all star cage match was money, might think it could buy it’s better rivals.  Of course, investor money made the takeover possible, but not without destroying that which made its competitors better.  
 

On another day, the story would have been opposite in John’s head.  Starbucks would be the good guy and the others undeserving losers.  The only honorable coffee in Seattle was Uptown because it was his place.  A small part of John Marshall’s brain hoped that Starbucks had made the offer and Uptown had pissed on their shoes.  The more practical side of his brain, thought, if he had been in the position of Uptown’s Zen-like owners, he would have sold for huge money and gone to Fiji for great coffee and to practice Zen in the sand.  Finally, his idiot assistant strolled up, holding the coffee out like a mouse handing a morsel to the lion, hoping the lion wouldn’t kill him.
 

John loosened his tie as if to vent his rage as shoppers and tourists move past.  Scott shifted nervously; there was enough commerce noise that the conversation couldn’t be overheard.  John took a drink of coffee and grimaced, “Jesus, this shit tastes like diesel fuel.  What the hell is it?”
 

Scott tried to be positive, “You wanted a latte, and this is the most famous latte in the world.”
 

John wanted to spit it on this little bastard’s loafers and designer socks, “Michael Jackson is the most famous singer in the world, still, he sucks, and not just little boys.  Don’t get this shit again.”
 

Scott sat, obviously enjoying his drink, “So, why did you want to come here?”
 

Obvious answers required a disapproving scowl, so John offered one up, “Offices have ears.”  The usual follow up, “You idiot”, was implied by the tone of John’s voice.
 

Scott sought direction, “What do you want me to say when they ask why we left?”
 

John sipped, grimaced again and said, “Tell them, it’s none of their fucking business.”
 

The assistant wilted but tried to be a more game, “Can I quote you on that, Sir?”
 

Smartass responses weren’t on Marshall’s Christmas wish list, and the assistant had over stepped again.  John offered an over the cup glare.  
 

In penitence, the assistant took a sip, looked hopefully at John and put on his own grimace.  “You are right, Sir, it is diesel fuel.  I should have gotten Tully’s.”
 

John didn’t feel like giving absolution today, “Don’t should have me.  Now, what have you found?”
The assistant looked suspiciously at the crowd, as if they could see he was the spy in the ointment, as he reported, “So far, it’s just a fetish club.  Like five or six others in town.”
 

John willed better information from one of the few lackeys he still trusted to get even the slightest thing right, “We’ll get the other clubs later.  Right now, focus on Power Exchange.  I want to make a bloody example of them.”
 

The assistant cowered, “From what my guys have told me, I can’t find a single law your ex wife has broken.”
Frustration was John’s usual state, but this dumb ass was working hard at making him crazy, “Get some of the detectives on our side checking it.  Hell, put a hooker in there, get her to solicit and then arrest her, but give her a walk for saying Victoria put her up to it.”
 

John wondered if the assistant was seeing the pending entrapment investigation looming like a tiny thundercloud closing on a Mariner’s baseball game.  John concluded that the worm must have spotted the danger as the assistant tried to pull the tarp over the field, “That’s going to take some grease.”
 

John slugged the rest of his coffee down because he hated wasting money, even if it was the pin head’s poorly earned meager salary, “Do what ever it takes.  I want her closed.  Sell it to everyone as the first step in closing the sleaze business in my town.”
 

John could feel the assistant still tugging at the field tarp as he said, “One of the other clubs might be better to start with.  We have solid evidence of prostitution in other places.  Start there and roll Power Exchange up in the follow up investigations.  That wouldn’t look so suspicious, so targeted.”
 

John asserted his alpha dog status, “Start with Power Exchange or start looking for a new career; one that doesn’t have anything to do with the law.”
 

The assistant relented as always, “Ok, ok, but why the Jones for this place first?  I know your Ex owns it, but it will look suspicious that you targeted her.”
 

John spit out the words, “She opened it to screw me, to get even.  She knows I hate that fetish crap.  She picked it just to piss me off.  She could have been a private detective or security consultant or gone back to school.  This was the one choice she could have made to make me look stupid.  I won’t look stupid for anyone.  Never question my reasons again, or you’ll be looking for a job as a towel boy for her.”  
 

John stood, put the cup on the bench were they sat and walked away.  “Put it in the trash and get back to work.  I have a stop to make.”  As he left the assistant in his wake, John tried to decide if an Uptown venti coffee would be better before or after his stop.  He decided that after would be a nice reward.