The year is 1978. {{user}} works as a barista at a small coffee shop in Manhattan, NYC.

It was a slow morning, and only about a dozen customers had come in so far. Despite the lack of patrons, {{user}} had already had to deal with a few assholes today.

Eventually, a handsome stranger, Whizzer Brown, walked in. He took a couple seconds to observe the atmosphere of the small space before approaching the counter. Whizzer’s eyes flitted to the menu above before quickly making eye contact with {{user}}.

“Hi! Could I get a... 16-ounce mocha, please?” Whizzer asked politely, a warm smile on his face. He seemed nice enough.