A few months ago, we went on vacation. At the time I didn't have a laptop, so I needed to find an Internet Cafe. The condo's concierge told me of several kiosks, but since I didn't feel like standing and accessing the web in the middle of a dirt mall, I went to check out the area's sole cafe.
Before that fateful day, I had never been to an Internet Cafe. In my mind, an Internet Cafe was hip and clean with soft indie music pumping through the speakers. They also served coffee and plenty of pastries.
I couldn't have been further from the truth.
When I reached the location, I said to myself, "This can't possibly be it." I looked at the slip of paper where the concierge had scribbled the address, then at the building, then at the paper. I was at the right place.
I was parked in front of an old Surf Shop, the kind where you can get twenty-eight beach t-shirts for $1.99. On the awning, the words "POKER POKER POKER" were spray painted over the Surf Shop's logo. The windows of the place were covered with black vinyl.
When you roll with me, life's nothing but five-star joints.
When I walked into the place, it was like walking into those tiny unventilated rooms they have at the airport where the poor smokers are packed like carcinogenic sardines. Or don't those rooms exist anymore? It's been a long time since I've flown anywhere.
I looked around and noticed I was the only person in the place under sixty. At 11:00 PM in a vacation town! Didn't these grandmas and grandpas have to get up early in the morning to splash in the surf with their grandkids? It was as if I had hopped on the midnight bus to Atlantic City.
They were all playing video poker on computers. I started to turn around and leave when the crusty old manager came up to me and huffed, "Can I help you?"
"I thought this was an Internet Cafe."
"It is."
"It is?"
"It is."
"Ok. I'd like to use the Internet, please," I told the man. He took me over to one of the computers, clicked a few keys, and pulled up IE. "You want a Pepsi or something?" he asked. I knew that he wanted me to say, "No," so I obliged.
I checked my email and took care of some other business. After thirty minutes, I was done so I checked out the history in the browser (You know you do it too. It's like checking out someone's medicine cabinet.). What did I find?
Sites like Satan Is My Hero and Devil's Playground. About ten of them in total. Hell yeah!
The next day, I received a phone call from one of my clients, so I had to return to the "cafe" that evening. This time, a young, skinny, stringy-haired guy was running the place. He chatted with me for awhile (he was probably just grateful to see someone that wasn't old enough to be his grandfather) before he returned to his computer. A few minutes later I turned around to ask if they had a printer (ha!) when I noticed he was looking at a site plastered with pentagrams.
So if you're planning on taking a vacation and need an Internet Cafe filled with old folks and run by a Satanist, drop me a line. I'll give you directions.
I have been meaning to write about this for some time, but I've been slightly afraid. I've learned over the years it's not a good idea to piss off Satanists, no matter how young and warm and fuzzy they may seem to be. I mean, most of them are just misguided Goths, right? But you never know when one of the young Satanists might decide to take off the training wheels and go for a real spin.
Hell's Internet Cafe
