TikTok posted by user prettymangled87 late August.

Caption: my sis is queen of oddly satisfying.

A video of a girl with a loose 'fro wearing a green crop top held a vanilla soft serve. She calmly dipped it into a vat of blue dipping chocolate and pulled it out. A close-up showed it's beautiful perfection.

Views: 350+

First day of school, coffee break, teacher's lounge.

SRO Abbacchio was Brooklyn Italian and had a bad case of "resting bitch face".

The nearly opaque, mirrored sunglasses he even wore indoors made him look even more forbidding.

He was also apparently, an albino.

He was also a hell of a lot better at avoiding Helen Goode, the school's latest Diversity Counselor than Mike, who'd already had two run-ins with the well-meaning busybody this morning.

Oh, and Abbaccio lived on coffee; the blacker the better. Something Mike, who just recently went back to drinking the stuff after thirty years, heartily approved of.

Abbacchio looked down into his sixth cup so far. He then took a long, sensuous pull, permanently grumpy face contemplative behind dark lenses. He swallowed loudly, before saying, "So, I says, "If you don't like my braids, motherfucker, stop touching 'em!"

Mike, nursing his second cup of the day, shrugged, grunting noncommittally. Having been in the Corps during the era of "Don't ask, don't tell!", Abbaccio's tell-all about his locker room run-in as a rookie with a fellow rookie made him uncomfortable.

"When he didn't stop," Abbaccio groused, "I told him once more my braids were "cultural" and to stop touching them. Then I sucker punched him – got both of us suspended!"

"Yeah, culture." Mike topped off his own near-bucket sized cup and downed it. (Culture? What culture? Did Brooklyn Italian men wear braids and he'd just not been paying attention?) Mike swallowed hard and then said, "It's your culture, braids, yeah. Italian men wear their hair in braids?"

"Culture?" Ms. Goode flew through the break room door at her favorite word, "Culture? Officer Schmidt, I've warned you about microaggressions!"

"'S fine, Ms. Goode." Lenses glinting, Abbacchio licked his purple-black lips. His back was to her, but Mike caught the other man's smirk, "I don't care if he asks."

"Oh," Ms. Goode, said, glaring at Mike. "Well, since we're on the subject…"

"Unless they're in mourning, Algonquin men usually don't cut their hair." Abbacchio said, smirk disappearing as he turned to face the frumpy middle-aged woman, "And I'm not."

("Algonquin? Isn't that some sort of Native? I thought he said he was Brooklyn Italian!") Mike, who already loathed the Diversity Counselor, thought while trying to make his seven foot frame unobtrusive. The last thing he needed today was her brand of trouble, which judging by the ACAB and BLM posters in her office, could come at the least provocation.)

"Thank you for sharing your beautiful culture with us!" Ms. Goode gushed. "And where are you from? I mean, originally. The rez?"

"Hey," Mike thought, "You told me I wasn't supposed to ask anybody shit like that!"

"Air Force brat. Dad's Brooklyn, Italian. Met mom when he was stationed at Dover Air Force Base. Then Japan. After that, Germany."

"I see." Ms. Goode's voice dripped disapproval. (It was common knowledge that Goode objected to the school allowing military recruiters to come in and give presentations.)

Abbacchio slowly dropped in six sugar cubes two at a time, plop-plop-plop, savoring Ms. Goode's righteous disapproval.

Sensing something entertaining was about to go down, Mike swallowed a guffaw as Helen tried not to look like she was staring at Abbacchio's distinct profile as Abbacchio's long, spidery black-nailed hands stirred his seventh cup of coffee, "But I see you've embraced your true pre-colonial traditions. Which is a good thing!" She chirped consolingly, "Very healthy! As an ally, I'm behind you 100% in your choice… So, could you—"

"Coffee. First." Abbacchio's interruption was pleasant enough. Only Ms. Goode didn't catch the warning underpinning his request.

"Well," she said, flustered, "I was hoping to hear a story of your people?"

From where he leaned casually against the Coke machine, using the dusty top as a table, Mike raised an eyebrow at his partner.

Abbacchio silently mouthed at Mike, "Watch this." and proceeded with his favorite game: "Lets Fuck With the Normie, Gold Edition".

This. Was. Gonna. Be. Good.

"Wanna know…why the sun… doesn't have titties?" Abbacchio took a long, reflective drink of coffee, purplish black tongue flickering briefly at the corners of his mouth before releasing both barrels, "She cut 'em off so humans wouldn't look up and say 'OOoooh, titties!' and go BLIND!"

Mike snorted coffee from his newly remodeled nose down the front of his bulletproof vest, splattering his body cam at the sight of a gaping Helen Goode.

"Well, you asked!" Laughing, the oddly proportioned SRO strutted towards the door, tossing his used paper cup in the trash can across the room. Passing the furiously blushing Ms. Goode, Abbacchio's friendly grin broadened under his sunglasses, nearly reaching his ears. "Have a nice day!" he said, revealing row upon row of pointed teeth set in purple gums as a raven flew away from the windowsill.