#✰ –– don't punish the tiger for taking its prey ! inspo.

[ofmurphys]

✰ –– hero coffee roasters. 2pm, on a tuesday.

this bitch wants a frappu-fuckin’-ccino. murphy blinks and pastes on a smile. jesus. fake-owning this shithole’s getting real old these days. “ oh, hun, of course i can improvise that sugar rush for you. don’t even fret it. we totally keep vats of that fake java just lying around. ”  honestly, murph can’t tell what’s worse –– the fact that this cardboard cutout vsco girl even asked, or the fact that she actually believes her.

hero coffee roasters loses a customer that day. as the doorbell jingles shut with the force of the girl’s slam, murphy pops a redhot into her mouth and chews. does nothing to hide her growing smirk. yeah, yeah. 

good riddance.

or alternatively :  hey demons, it’s me, ya gurl !  back at it again with my very snakey shadow gorl. click that read more to learn about this gorgeous amoral piece of ass. i’m trying out a new intro format, so... bear with me !  i hope y’all enjoy, and pls hmu on discord for plots !  

murph is... straight up trouble. so if you want drama ?  you want bullshit & compulsive lies ?  you want ill-founded rage with no apologies later ?  you’ve come to the right place .

this is the story of a girl who cried a river and drowned the whole world . . .   just kidding. murphy berman doesn’t shed tears for shit.

— && guests may mistake me as ( zoe kravitz ), but really i am ( murphy berman + cisfemale + she/her ) and my DOB is ( 11/7/1994 ). i am a ( “ coffee shop owner ” ) and would like to stay in suite ( 306 ). i won’t be much of a bother because i am ( + cunning & fierce ), but i can also be ( - acetous & cutthroat ) at times. personally, i like to ( code, flick gum wrappers at pigeons, bring my pet turtle to the movies, sit back and watch shit burn ) when i have the time to relax, and my favorite snack is ( those purple doritos, y'know. chili or whatever the fuck  ) to have in my suite. thank you for checking in !

i n s p o .

coffee shop –– hero coffee roasters.

pinterest.

soundcloud –– soul sounds.

soul anthem.

b a c k d r o p .  ( tw: drug mentions, alcoholic tendencies, alcohol, crime, allusions to domestic violence, violence, murder. )

2am, bar’s closed. but braids still sits, forearms draped atop the counter, shades askew. as you restock new handles, she raises a finger, like she might say something, then pours herself another bourbon. cutting her off is the least of your worries –– it doesn’t take a genius to tell this cookie can handle her own. and the shit she’s spewing ?  something tells you this has never been aired before.

“ so picture the fuck outta this, bub. ”  a swig.  “ you’re born and before you even got the wherewithal to speak, you’re shipped off to some graham cracker family in the  ‘ burbs. you start leapfrogging –– my term, tee-em –– ”  a tattooed finger traces the symbol into the air accordingly. “ and after a while, it’s a game. hop a house, stay a while, see how much of their shit you can pocket. ”  nostalgic sighs accompany a litany of stolen goods :  cash. jewelry. first edition tetris game, hand-fuckin’-held. the hoopers’ prized gold kazoo.

don’t believe her ?  onto black marble slides proof. 

“ then you land. hard. the fuckin’ landry’s. ”  a scornful chuckle. “ miss me with that white picket fence ass shit. but they get you your first comp, so... when they ask to adopt you, you’re like. i dunno, man. sure, i guess ?  and guess wrong. ”  turns out the landry’s aren’t as warm or welcoming as they claim. their youngest kid dies, freak accident. monkey bars. “ family falls apart worse than that time you tried to make a ball from fresh cigarette ash. you were eleven. ”  tattooed over the scar.

braids tells you ‘bout the party being over. the bruising. but she laughs through it, rolls her eyes like she’s talking ‘bout silly old friends instead of terrible old people.

her birth mother finds her. they meet up a few times in a local park, whisks her away when she’s twelve. is it kidnapping ?  technically, who gives a fuck. they lived low. under the radar. in apartments above dive bars. spent a summer breaking into parked cars. finally landed with j.j., who turned out to just be a glorified drug mule.

“ new york was fine to me. y’know, fucked off in school. kid shit. ”  she shrugs. you won’t know it, but she’ll astutely sidestep the fact that she hacked her first global system at 14. she won’t mention she started accepting paypal offers from obscure reddit threads two weeks later. by 17, she was contracting independently –– a business venture, she’d tell her high school counselor, assigned to keep her from winding up on the streets. 

matty, her best friend since the move to new york, decided to kiss her silly after trying shrooms. she liked it. told him maybe he could do that more often.

“ he cleaned up, ”  braids purses her lips. “ after high school. stopped messing with his crowd. our crowd. ”  she grabs two stirrers from a container dangerously close to your hand. taps ‘em on the counter like she’s stomping out mini fires. “ let him put a ring on me. y’know make bey proud. ”

she won’t mention that while matty gets a job as a cook at a bougie french restaurant, she continued to deal with devils. woman in her high castle. under the guise of cpu-based tetris and a whole lot of freelance web design.

but then roosevelt savings bank gets robbed. and they somehow trace the ip back to her.

it’s an easy mishap to shake. showed ‘em the websites. the code. the computer usage logs. the blues believe her, but matty...

“ trust issues. sad, huh ?  thought i was fucking around behind his back. ”  with criminals.

“ and then shit gets good, homie. we’re tasting stupid fucking cake. red velvet... ”  cue a laugh. bitter. the stirrers stop tapping. “ then i meet aamina and everything goes to shit. i brought it up, you know. like. hey, your fiancée might be a little bit into pussy. ”

for the first time all night, her eyes meet yours. and it’s only then you realize... there’s some heavy fuckin’ sadness swimming in those baby browns. worlds pass through them. alternative stories –– where matty wasn’t high. where he didn’t reach for the knife.

“ he lost it. ”  silence. she looks away. “ anyway. ”  she launches into why chicago –– why she studied pre-law for two years before tossing in the towel. because “ fuck a judge, man. ” and she’s into the finer things in life.  ( she struck you as an arts type. what with the glasses. the vintage band tee worn like a dress. maybe you get a glimmer of pride knowing you were right. she won’t mention that the whole thing’s a farce. )

she launches into why a coffee shop. she’ll tell you the beautiful thing about coffee is it takes no shit. she’ll tell you owning a place gets fuckin’ wild, but she’s in it for the free java and coffee-themed booze. a perk all hourly baristas like her enjoy.  “ and we made that top list or whatever. of fly places here.  an honor. i’d like to thank god, and also jesus. which i hope you know are my boys bazzi and frank ocean. ”  

you’ll google hero coffee roasters later. and find its registered owner goes by brian tubolino. but hey, maybe she’s married.

when braids finally decides it’s time to go, sunlight’s nipping at chicago’s heels.

“ you chill if i ... ? ”  before you can answer, she’s takin’ a swig straight from the half-finished bottle of bourbon. picks it up and cradles it under one arm, precious cargo. 

“ souvenir, man. in remembrance of you. ”