The Coffee Serial Killer
He wanted to put his case before jury and judge. He wanted to clear his name and make a fresh start. But, he knew he faced an uphill battle - a titanic, impossible task and his life was on the line.
‘God help me!’ His mind beseeched, but there was no reply. He was on his own.
From the corners of his dimly lit cell, where the concrete floor infused his veins with ice, he considered his plight.
How would he convince them that he meant no harm?
How would he show them that he held no malice in his heart?
How could he tell them that he was different, but didn’t have the soul of a destroyer?
How?
Freedom to choose was not a luxury the governing body allowed. Oh, no, conformism was the order of the day, and he didn’t fit in. He knew that he didn’t mingle well, his social skills were as odd as his accent.
He didn’t fit in.
But to be labelled a “Serial Killer”! To be punished without cause?
What was the world coming to. What?
His mind played tricks on him. The gray chill of his four-by-four cell closed in on him, suffocating, alienating. His wrists still ached from the shackles they’d so cruelly wound around him - to round him up, at a distance. Oh, yes, they treated him as if he had supernatural powers. They were afraid of him.
It was ridiculous.
He attempted to focus his mind on the accusations levelled at him. He tried to format a suitable plea.
His sins were an abomination…
He stood accused of sabotaging tradition,
…physiological interference,
…substance abuse,
…mind control,
…economic derailment
‘Ahhh,’ he thought, ‘ECONOMIC, yes that was it. That’s why they were afraid.’
‘Just follow the money. Honey!’ he laughed out loud despite his throbbing temples.
‘They were afraid because he posed a threat to their financially lucrative empire.’ His mind wandered back, compiling all that transpired.
After the bomb, the nuclear bomb, there was not much left of the United States. ‘It was so weird,’ he thought, ‘weird. The war had been European in location, but the target was the USA’. Very few people survived. Nuclear fallout meant relocation.
Relocation to the land ‘across the pond’. Britain.
Where they only drank tea. Where the world had become “small”. Where the people had become suspicious of foreigners coming in to take the few remaining jobs away from the locals. A people terrified by the destruction they’d witnessed in the world.
A people intolerant of anything that disturbed the status quo - like coffee addicts.
The conundrum, of course, for him at least was that wherever he’d gone, even in tiny social circles (which was all he could manage, really - because they ridiculed his accent), the beverage he carried with him, wherever he went, became an instant hit. They damn well loved the coffee.
Until he got arrested, that is. Until they took him in and put his name in the news
The Coffee Serial Killer! The man attempting to murder TEA!
The KING’S TEA MUST SURVIVE!
The King’s tea must survive…
This is my post for WOTW, too
Dreem-wotw prompt DISTANCE