Bob (who began spelling his name backward a few years ago, after twisting his ankle) grabbed his coffee. He headed for the exit, passing a rainforest mural he’d seen hundreds of times. He mused at how realistic it seemed, with a balmy breeze wafting forth. How odd.
He looked around. No one seemed to notice. Presumably they didn’t notice the dragon either. Which whipped out its long prehensile tongue and snapped the coffee from his hand. Without spilling a drop, it should be noted. It gobbled it up in an instant (including the eco-friendly, free-range, hypo-allergenic cup made from organic, gluten-free hemp by a reclusive tribe of hippies who live in a remote area of the coast of northern California and who collectively spent more years following the Grateful Dead than would be considered average). And just as quickly spewed him with a mix of mediocre, overpriced coffee and dragon spit.
It shouldn’t have surprised him that much more when the dragon spoke and indeed, it did not.
“Hazelnut,” The dragon snarled. “How can anyone drink that crap?”