Ms. Dion’s argument against free wifi

When everyone has rooted themselves in, cabled to the walls, petrified stares aglow in the radiance of a million lit pixels, long drained coffee mugs forming invisible rings on lacquered tabletops. The man behind the counter, bearded, with a tuft of hair attempting to take flight over his little lost eyes, finishes scraping the crust from the coffee filter, sets down the damp stained towel and secretly, stealthily, hits the square button on the stereo. The hip, chill music fades. Unnoticed. Without warning, quietly at first, then louder and louder. A voice, a melody, as serious as it is trite. As polished as a glass wall of pressed feathers. I find in my mind an eagle soaring through golden rays of sunlight, maybe over a beach, rich white cumulus clouds like the foam of a cappuccino, a face super imposed over it all, eyes closed lips moving in sync with voice. ‘My heaaart will gooo oooonnn.’

Wait.
Stop.
What happened?
When did the music turn sh!tty?

I see myself with a shotgun turning the whole scene to a bloody pulpy porcelain bowl of chili hurled at a white wall. I’m stomping on the skulls of eagles. Lighting fires to factories. Slashing wedding dresses with machetes. Vacuuming up stardust. Sinking my teeth into Celine’s throat, ripping ripping ripping. Chewing, choking, coughing. Spewing blood everywhere, I collapse, panting, heaving into the oil spills and stacks of rotting seal carcasses on the beach of my desolation.

The unpaying freeloaders tear their roots from the walls, cover the ears, and run out to the safety of the streets.

The chill music resumes. Sam Beam perhaps, crooning quietly as a brown paper sack.
New kids with Apple logos arrive, order the obligatory Americano, and plug in, and the cycle begins again.