Byron Woodley watched the other customers. They looked busy, checking the time and talking, but they didn't know much. He took a sip from his mug, tongued his dentures, and shouted, "Kid! One of your zits just explode?"
       "I've never had a zit in my life, Mr. Woodley."
       "Well this coffee tastes like pus."
       "Private Pus reporting for duty, sir!"
       "A generation of pus. How old are you, kid?"
       "Seventeen, baby."
       Byron Woodley glared. "Shouldn't your voice have finished dropping by now?"
       "Maybe you should get your ears replaced, too, Mr. Woodley. I sing tenor."
       "Good God. I was fighting in the Swiffle Wars when I was seventeen."
       "Was that a big thing?"
       "Alongside the Butcher of Swiffle Prime! Heard of him?"
       "Not even once."
       "Four hundred Swifflebots with one plasma knife. Batteries died after the first hundred and fifty."
       "Must have been impressive at the time."
       "Get out of here, kid."
       "See you tomorrow, Mr. Woodley."
       Byron Woodley finished his coffee and tapped his card on the table reader. He remembered when a person used to bring the reader over--put it on the table, smile, look at the tip. Useless tasks for useless people. To hell with them. The kid was a good one.

       The next morning Byron Woodley woke up, pushed in his prosthetic eye, attached his prosthetic hand, and started to attach his prosthetic leg to his stump. It took a minute because the clamp had fallen out of alignment. He glanced up at the videograph of his regiment on the opposing wall, grinning in their space combat suits. At their feet the purple grass of Swiffle Prime revealed various Swifflebot parts as it swayed.
       A dull metal chest sat on the floor beneath the videograph. Byron Woodley finished attaching the pro-leg and crossed the room to the kitchenette, ignoring the chest on the way. For breakfast he took avocado grits and a glass of acai Tang, an old habit from the space marines. He cleaned the bowl and glass and headed out.
       The pro-leg's clamp dug into his skin as he walked. He'd be eligible for a replacement in six months. It was bearable for now. A few minutes later he arrived at the café. He pulled out his usual chair and lowered himself in.
       "Kid!"
       "How's it hanging, Mr. Woodley?"
       "Coffee."
       "Since when do you drink coffee?"
       "Don't urinate in it this time."
       "Still working on my aim, sir."
       The kid returned a minute later with a mug. He seemed less cocky than usual. "Would you like to join our loyalty program, Mr. Woodley?"
       "I've come here every day for the past nineteen years and you question my loyalty?"
       "No. . .sir."
       "Then why are you asking for my loyalty?"
       "I. . .that wasn't what I meant, Mr. Woodley."
       "You a virgin, kid?"
       The kid's smirk returned. "Depends on if you count senior executives."
       "Of course you are. Ever hear about the Butcher of Swiffle Prime?"
       "Doesn't ring a bell."
       "Boned nine hundred space marines to boost morale. Some say that's what turned the tide in the Swiffle Wars. One man's semen! That's real loyalty."
       The kid saluted the ceiling. "A true hero, Mr. Woodley."
       "Get out of here, kid."
       Byron Woodley tapped his card on the reader, pressed his pro-hand on the table, and raised himself out of the chair. Loyalty. What bullshit. Still, the kid was a good kid.
       That evening he let out a groan as he unclamped his pro-leg. The skin on his stump was loose and red. He rotated himself onto the bed and pulled up the covers. It had the same dimensions as his bunk on the troop carrier orbiting Swiffle Prime, which was how he liked it. He turned on the TV and watched Seinfeld reruns until he fell asleep.

       The next morning Byron Woodley stared at himself in the videograph on the wall, his young face grinning despite the preceding ten hours of Swifflebot terror. He didn't look at the dull metal chest on the floor below.
       He limped the few steps to the kitchenette. The pro-leg's clamp always hurt most in the morning. He put on a Seinfeld rerun, took his avocado grits and acai Tang, and headed out.
       "Kid!" he called as he settled into his usual seat.
       "Sir, yes sir!"
       "Coffee."
       "That's what you said in my dream last night."
       "And don't put any road salt in it this time."
       "I'll leave it on the side." The kid's grin faded. "Would you like to donate a dollar to veterans with your coffee?"
       "What do I look like to you?"
       The kid said nothing.
       "Under the green sun of Swiffle Prime, I fought for the sovereignty of the human race, and you ask me if I'd like to donate a dollar to myself?"
       "I'm sorry, Mr. Woodley."
       "Bring me my damn coffee."
       The kid went back to the counter without a word. A dollar for veterans. He needed to get his head straightened. Byron Woodley watched the other customers. Most were young, less than half his age, looking to be on their way. The rest sat at their tables typing on their laptops. The whole pus generation needed its head straightened.
       The kid returned with a mug. He grimaced. "Would you like to join our loyalty program, Mr. Woodley?"
       "I said no yesterday."
       "Sorry, sir."
       "Then why are you questioning my loyalty again?"
       "It's the new store policy. . . in case you changed your mind."
       Byron Woodley searched the café. Behind the counter was a door with a 'Staff Only' sign. "Is the manager in?"
       "No." The kid tried to grin, but produced another grimace. "Sorry, Mr. Woodley."
       Byron Woodley grumbled under his breath. The kid stood for another second before returning to the counter.

       The next morning Byron Woodley lay in bed watching a Seinfeld rerun. Seinfeld was always good. He used a crutch to hobble to the kitchenette and started into his avocado grits and acai Tang. He doubted the kid had ever tasted either. No one in the pus generation could handle anything rough. It was their parents' fault.
       He eyed his pro-leg. It lay on the linoleum under the steel bedframe, in the same spot where he'd kept his neutron ax on the troop carrier. The skin on his stump wasn't red, but it was tender underneath. Probably bruised. But it was nothing compared to the faceplate-shattering shriek of a Swifflebot, or the way the green sun of Swiffle Prime made the skin bubble up like a tortilla. He put on his pro-leg, pro-hand, and pro-eye, and headed out.
       He took his usual seat in the café and called, "Kid!"
       The kid started toward him. He looked tired for a kid.
       "Coffee. And don't try to fool me with mop water again."
       "OK, sir." The kid remained standing next to the table. Byron Woodley waited for him to say something else. Then the kid blurted out, "Would you like to sign up for a credit card with your coffee? You'll get bonus points on any purchase you make in this mall."
       Byron Woodley glared. "No."
       "Would you like to donate a dollar to veterans?"
       "No."
       "Would you like to join our loyalty program?"
       "Why are you asking me these things?"
       "Store policy, sir."
       Byron Woodley looked down at his table. A minute later the kid returned with a mug. Byron Woodley didn't look up as he placed it on the table. He finished his coffee, tapped his card on the table reader, and went home.

       The next morning Byron Woodley lay in bed. He avoided the grinning faces of his regiment, but couldn't stop glancing at the dull metal chest below. Those damned offers were getting under his skin, like the zincworms of Swiffle Prime. It was the management, not the kid. He was still a good kid. After a couple hours of Seinfeld reruns, he headed out.
       He felt a dull pain in his stump as he took his usual seat. It wasn't quite as bad the previous day. A little moderation ought to carry him through the next six months.
       "Hey kid!" He waited for a response. "Kid! Your anal leakage does not pass for good coffee!"
       A shiny metal canister on wheels rolled up to his table. "Did you say you'd like a coffee?"
       Byron Woodley glared at the robot. "What happened to the kid?"
       "I didn't quite catch that. Can you repeat--"
       "What happened to the kid?"
       "I didn't quite catch--"
       "Just get me a fucking coffee."
       "Would you like to sign up--"
       "No."
       "Would you like to donate--"
       "No."
       "Would you like to join--"
       "Get the fuck out of here."
       "I didn't quite catch that. Can--"
       "No!"
       "Thank you. I'll be right back with your coffee."
       He scanned the restaurant. He couldn't find the kid or any other human employees. A minute later a shiny metal canister--he couldn't tell if it was the same one--rolled up to his table.
       "Here is your coffee. Enjoy, and remember to tip your server!"
       "Fuck off."
       The robot wheeled off with no reply. He glanced around the restaurant as he sipped his coffee. At the next table a woman with headphones was typing on a laptop.
       "Excuse me, miss."
       She didn't respond.
       "Miss," he said a little louder. "Excuse me."
       She removed one earbud and stared at her computer for another few seconds. She raised an eyebrow when she saw him.
       "What happened to the ki--to all the employees?"
       She looked to the counter. "They replaced them with robots."
       "But why'd they do that?"
       "I assume to save money."
       Byron Woodley scowled. His brow furrowed with suspicion as he grumbled to no one in particular.
       She drew in a breath, glanced at her laptop, and quickly added, "A lot of people prefer the robots. It's not so awkward to decline all the offers."
       "Well that's for damn sure," he cackled, but she'd already replaced the earbud and resumed typing. Byron Woodley grumbled, finished his coffee, and left.

       The next morning Byron Woodley watched a Seinfeld rerun, then another. He sat up and touched his stump. It was better, but still a little tender. Another day of rest and it'd be back to normal. Why go out just to tell a robot to fuck off? He lay back in bed and put on another Seinfeld rerun.

       A week later Byron Woodley lay in bed. He didn't turn on Seinfeld. He'd seen enough Seinfeld. From his bed he could see the outline of his regiment, but he couldn't make out their grins with only his biological eye. That was fine. He didn't want to see their grins right now. The swaying grass was just a purple blur across their feet. He hadn't put in his pro-eye in a week.
       He hadn't used his pro-leg or pro-hand in a week either. His stump felt fine, but his joints felt stiff, his muscles tired. He couldn't see his regiment's grins or the purple grass of Swiffle Prime, but he could see the dull metal chest below.
       He stared at it. It wasn't what he wanted. But Seinfeld alone wasn't working anymore.

       The shiny metal canister locked the door after the last customer had left the café. It was nighttime now. With its two colleagues it cleaned up and then docked itself in the charging station.
       The only light was a thin line under the 'Staff Only' door. The only noises were a faint sound of typing from within, the electrical hums of the charging station and a security camera, and footsteps from the occasional passerby.
       An electromagnetic pulse disabled the security camera and charging station. There was a sequence of clicks, and the front door swung inward. A space combat suit entered the café. Its footfalls were silent despite the presence of atmosphere. It removed one of its gloves.
       Within was a prosthetic hand--not a civilian model, but a military-grade Swifflebot annihilator. It pointed three fingers at the three charging metal canisters. From each finger a neon green beam shot forth, and the three canisters wadded up like tinfoil and clunked down to the floor.
       The space marine removed his helmet. Byron Woodley waited for his prosthetic eye--not his pro-eye, but his military-grade, ion tunneling oculum--to cool down from the pulse, and then scanned the café. All threats neutralized. He placed the glove and helmet on his usual chair and walked behind the counter into the 'Staff Only' door.
       Inside a man adjusted his glasses as he went over the figures for the day. He jumped as a space marine--not a current soldier, but Byron Woodley in most of an electrodisco-era space combat suit--walked into his office, aimed a glowing green finger at him, and with his gloved hand gently shut his laptop.
       "What are you doing here?"
       "Do you know who I am?"
       The manager shook with fear. "You're Byron Woodley."
       "Have you heard of the Butcher of Swiffle Prime?"
       "Yes." The manager gulped. "Everyone who works here has."
       "I am the Butcher of Swiffle Prime."
       The manager gulped again. "We all thought that was implied."
       "Well now it's. . . now you know."
       A question seemed to be forming on the manager's lips. Byron Woodley grumbled under his breath, and the manager nodded rapidly.
       "I don't want to see another robot working in this café."
       "Yes, sir."
       "And I don't want anyone who works here to request my loyalty, or ask me for a donation, or offer me a credit card, or any other thing like that." He extended a second glowing green finger.
       "Yes, Mr. Woodley!" the manager replied, almost in tears.
       "I want you to hire back that kid."
       "Which kid?"
       "You know which one. He's a good kid!"
       "Yes, sir!"
       "At double his previous pay!"
       "Yes, sir!"
       "Do you understand my requests?"
       "Yes. I think so. I do. Yes, sir."
       "Good." The manager relaxed, slightly, and tears began to roll down his face. "And one more thing!"
       "Anything!" the manager shrieked.
       "If you mention any of this to the kid, I will scoop out your larynx with a dead plasma knife."

       The next morning Byron Woodley popped in his pro-eye, attached his pro-hand, and started to attach his pro-leg. The skin on his stump was loose and dry but not tender, and his joints and muscles felt spry. They certainly didn't feel seventy-three years old. They didn't feel a day over sixty-five.
       He watched a Seinfeld rerun over avocado grits and acai Tang. He cleaned the plate and glass and then stood in front of his grinning regiment. He grinned back and saluted. He glanced down, frowned, thumped the dull metal chest with his pro-leg, and headed out.
       He entered the café and took his usual seat. He scanned the room. No metal canisters in sight.
       "Kid!"
       "You're still alive?"
       "What happened to the robots?"
       "I needed the hydraulic oil for your coffee, Mr. Woodley."
       "So now I have to put up with you again?"
       "I suppose we don't have to kiss anymore."
       "Get me a coffee already."
       "Aye aye, sir!"
       A minute later the kid placed a mug on the table. Byron Woodley took a sip. "I prefer cream in my coffee, not your mammy's tit milk!"
       "No one else is complaining about it."
       "Complaining? I'll tell you about complaining. Ever heard of the Butcher of Swiffle Prime?"