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In desperate need of last-minute caffiene and sugar before my editing class, I swung through the cafe in a languid arc, snatching the vanilla coke from the fridge and waving my money at the girl.

"Wait," she said, "the vanilla coke just went in. It's not cold."

"The diet's been in there all day," her boss advised.

I can't believe it. I'm reduced to diet vanilla coke. What is this? It tastes weird. Not as cokey. Funny, that.

And then I flipped over the lid and looked at the blue underside. There's a number on it. I turn it around so I can read it.

23.

Should have fucking known. Bloody Illuminati bastards, making me drink diet coke.