We lived under the Milkshake License Regime for a while. Things calmed down. Procedures were followed. Milkshakes were properly chilled, milked, and blended. Spirits were high, trust was slowly being rebuilt.

And then came Damon. Call sign: 988. Nationality: British. Mission: Graveyard shift. Special skill: Making everyone a die-hard Chelsea FC supporter, whether they cared or not.

Damon was a good guy. Great in a crisis. Smooth on the phone. Knew his way around a tea kettle. But coffee? Not so much.

Five Pounds of Coffee

The morning coffee was one of those sacred rituals. Every graveyard shift ended with brewing a big 5-gallon batch of Starbucks to get ready for the early risers and room service orders. The process was simple: one 1-pound bag of coffee into the giant filter, let it rip. Perfect coffee. Every time.

But Damon took a look at that single pound and decided: That can't be right.

So he filled the filter to the top — five pounds of coffee. One pound per gallon. A gallon of espresso sludge. Coffee so thick it probably had its own gravitational pull.

Miraculously, it brewed. And he poured all five gallons of caffeinated tar into carafes, loaded it onto the cart, and sent it up for service.

It didn't take long. Guests started calling down. Furious.

"This coffee is undrinkable." "It tastes like someone brewed it with resentment." "What the hell are you people doing down there?"
"Service Express, please contact 988. The manager needs to see you. Now!"

The Velcro Heard Round the Hotel

Our manager — the same guy who had just barely recovered from the milkshake fiasco — was not amused. Another meeting was called. More stern talking. More laminated shame.

A new license was required: The Coffee License. Every one of us had to prove we could brew a proper pot. We were evaluated, watched like hawks, tested under pressure. Even Damon passed. We were licensed, caffeinated professionals once again.

But peace was temporary. Just days later, Damon was back on coffee duty. Another batch of bitter, black mud. Guests complained immediately.

That morning, as we were lining up room service carts in the kitchen, ready to launch the breakfast fleet, in stormed Bob Binny — our Service Express Manager. A man on the edge. His hair was out of place. His eyes said he hadn't slept in days.

He pointed at Damon. "You. We just fixed this. We just had the meeting!"

Then he stormed over to the wall — the one where we all proudly Velcroed our shiny new coffee licenses. He yanked Damon's license clean off the wall. Held it up in the air. And, with dramatic flair, he shouted:

"SEE THIS?"
RIIIIIIPPPP.
(The Velcro echoed like a thunderclap.)
"Your coffee-making license has been revoked!"

Damon stood there, half-apologetic, half-baffled — like he couldn't quite believe coffee had betrayed him like this.

Ironically, despite the caffeine catastrophe, Damon still held onto his milkshake license. And honestly? He made a mean milkshake. Perfect ratio. Never hot. Always cold. Go figure.