Michael Marrotti

No Trump, No KKK, No Fascist USA!

They sauntered into Marrotti’s Coffee Shop like they were going to protest a free speech rally. Each one dressed in black from head to toe. They both had identical pink triangle tattoos on their left hands to prove a point:

Individuality Is Dead.

Martha was taken aback by the all black staff.

“This is like, so racist! How dare they only hire black people? They aren’t their fucking slaves. I like, seriously despise this country!”

“Yeah, this is bullshit!” replied Oswald. “I’m feeling really triggered right now! I may have to go burn an American flag!”

“Calm down,” replied Martha. “I’ll fix this. It’s our rights as repressed citizens!”

Martha pushed an elderly, white woman out her way, stormed up to the front of the line and said, “Excuse me, my fellow indentured servant. Do you have a “Safe Space” for my friend? America is getting the best of him again. He needs assistance!”

The black barista gave her a solemn gaze for three seconds, until his iPhone went off. After, he reached into his pocket, to check his Twitter notifications.

“Like, what the fuck?” said Martha. Can’t you see my friend is dying over here?”

Oswald was shaking like an innocent member of Antifa, who was tasered by a cop over all the left reasons. You could hear the sound of his teeth chattering.

An Asian couple slowly rose from their seats to exit the establishment, leaving a half empty pot of tea behind.

They’ve seen enough already to last a lifetime.

Martha vehemently clapped her hands three times to get the baristas attention, as she said,

“I’m a paying customer with my dad’s credit card! Like, I hope you’re not expecting a tip after this!”

The barista laughed out loud as he put away his iPhone. “Welcome to Marrotti’s Coffee Shop,” he said. “Can I take your order?”

“Yes,” replied Martha. “I’ll take two skim milk lattes and a God damn safe space for my friend!”

At this point, Oswald was foaming at the mouth.

“I’m sorry ma’am, but I don’t know what a safe space is.” He typed away on the cash register. “Your total is $4.20.”

Martha, in a fit of rage, screamed at the barista, “I’m not a ma’am, I’m a fucking pronoun! Like, are you really serious? And you gave me an anti-Semitic total on top of it! You people make me sick!”

The black baristas demeanor changed instantaneously after the “you people” remark.

“Yo, what the fuck you mean, you people? Bitch, are you challenging my black privilege? I will go Black Lives Matters on yo white ass right now, ‘aight!”

Martha, accustomed to male brutality from all the public protests she attends, stood her ground by saying, “I’m a fucking pronoun, you indentured servant! And this is fucking fascist! Don’t you dare think for a minute that my dumpster diving  friends and I won’t storm this racist establishment! The right to protest is ours only!”

“Fuck you, and your daddy’s credit card!” The barista pointed to the door saying, “Get the fuck out, whitey!”

A loud thump distracted them from quarreling like two morons strung out on fluoridated water. Martha turned around to see Oswald lying on the floor in the fetal position.

“You did this!” screamed Martha. “You and your fascist ways did this! That’s it! You’ve forced my index finger! I’m calling George Soros!”

The barista, along with his two other black coworkers, jumped over the counter in an attempt to physically remove Martha from the premises. She was throwing around punches like a man with a thick dick.

The baristas cautiously surrounded her until the time was precise and BAM! A flurry of punches came her way, knocking her off her feet. They grabbed her and Oswald by the legs, dragging them outside to the street. Martha, in and out of consciousness, was murmuring, “No Trump, no KKK, no fascist USA!”

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