Every October, Cedar Grove hosted a modest fall festival with cider stands, a pie throwing contest, and local artisans selling handmade cups shaped like pumpkins, skulls, and existential dread.

This year the town added a new attraction. The Haunted Roast of Clorvex, an outdoor comedy themed campfire event designed to poke fun at the demon who once mistook Jo’s cup of dark roast for a portal to hell.

The flyers read:
ONE NIGHT ONLY: ROAST THE DEMON WHO STARTED IT ALL. NO LATTES OFF LIMITS.

Clorvex, ever the drama queen, insisted on being present. He arrived in a silk robe, sipping an iced mocha through a glittery straw, and sitting on a flaming beanbag throne.

Mira hosted. Matteo brought cursed biscotti that screamed when dipped. Jo brought her mop just in case.

The roasting began with Mira.

“You think you’re terrifying?” she teased. “I’ve seen toddlers hopped up on cotton candy summon stronger chaos than you.”

“You’re not even the spiciest thing I’ve had this week,” Matteo added. “That title goes to Larry’s chilli macchiato. I’m still crying about it.”

The Froth appeared in a communal mug and said, “Clorvex tried to unionize us, but he couldn’t spell foam.”

Even Jo got in a jab. “Clorvex once possessed a blender and made a smoothie so bad it unbaptized three people.”

Clearly delighted, Clorvex cackled in a swirl of laughter and smoke.

“This is the most love I’ve felt in a century,” he beamed. “Roast on, mortals!”

That night ended in laughter, marshmallows with suspiciously sentient caramel drizzle, and a group singalong of “Don’t Stop Bean-lievin’”.

The town hadn’t healed from the caffeine curse but it had learned to laugh about it.

And Clorvex? He stayed to DJ the afterparty.