He’d never worked in a joint like this before. He’d been watching the place as it grew into some sort of Mecca- an oasis of great drinks and gourmet pizza. No one knew what to make of it but they knew they loved this cocktail bar that seemed to spring up like some sort of beautiful flowering weed in a cracked city sidewalk. So when the chef offered Strawbco this gig – making pizza in the tiniest, hottest kitchen that the city had seen in years, if ever – he jumped at the chance. His initial reception by the staff on hand was cordial but somewhat cool. He was okay with that though, he’d been around the hospitality industry long enough to understand the tight knit sense of family that was the backbone of all good bars or restaurants. He was “the new guy”, and he was cool with that…until that raven haired bartender came up with a nickname for him, on day freaking one: Strawberry Cupcake. Strawberry fucking Cupcake?!? They called him Strawberry Cupcake – every last one of them. Like he was just another kitchen slug. Just another grinder wanting to be a part of this rocket-ship that was Speak of the Devil. If only they knew. If only any one of these people in there calling him “Strawberry Cupcake” understood that he’d been watching this joint for nights on end from various places, positions and perches…if only…