"Hey stupidhead, that's my cup of latte!" Leslie shouts.

The guy looks down at the latte, snorts, and takes a gulp. "I don't see your name on it," he huffs. Fuming, Leslie starts to wave her hands through the air.

"Fine. Want to mess with me? You're going to regret it."

The guy smirks and takes another gulp. Cafe patrons go "oooooo" and take two steps back from the counter. A barista makes a tiny yelp and dives behind the cash register.

A delicate shimmer appears above her hands. The air crystalizes and sparks dance around her fingers. A low hum starts to drum our ears.

The guy blinks and stops drinking. The latte starts to quiver in his hand. He takes a step back.

"Oh man, that guy is totally dead," someone in the crowd whispers.

Leslie's hands glow. The shimmer intensifies. Sparks begin whirling around in some kind of cosmic pattern.

"Wha-wha-what are you doing?" whimpers the guy. He drops the latte all over his khakis. Brown on brown, how pretty.

A shape emerges from Leslie's hands. It's long and pointy.

"Magic Missile!" Leslie chants. The missile leaps from her hands and strikes the guy squarely in the chest, causing 1d4+10 of damage. His body flies across the room and crashes into the wall. Sparks and flames lick his flesh. Shrieking in agony, he collapses to the ground. His tattered clothes trickle with smoke.

"What did I tell you, huh? What did I tell you, stupidhead?" Leslie jeers. "Mess with me, and you'll regret it."