By: Andrew Dahl

Bennett had his fake name queued up and ready for the barista: Bart Buttz. Goofy, but not obviously fake. His therapist had encouraged him to find structured ways to add a sense of mischief to his life, and this is what Bennett had settled on. And now he was up.
“What can I get started for you?” the insultingly young barista chirped, Sharpie poised over a paper cup.
“Buttz! Jeff…I mean…” He trailed off.
“I’m sorry, what was that, sir?”
“I, uh… just a black tea, please,” Bennett muttered.
A bead of cold shame-sweat rolled slowly down his butt crack.

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