Read Online Las Vegas for Vegans by A. S. Patric - Free Book Online

his Gaggia Deco D espresso machine.
    The next morning I walk into the cafe and feel sure there will be no more need for gunwaving and I won’t have to kill anyone to get a coffee. I had a difficult night getting to sleep. For hours I tried to rest my mind and body. Even when I managed to drift away I found myself waking in a fevered state, my sheets wet right through and my pillow soaked. In short, too much coffee. There have to be limits even to these dark pleasures, I suppose.
    The line is long and I can barely get through the doors of the cafe. I announce myself but no-one moves.
    The double-sugar-latte woman stands before me again and I tell her, ‘Surely, my mettle has been tested. My resolve can’t still be in question.’
    She turns around and a wash of her perfume breaks over me in a dizzying ocean of petals and pollen, bouquets of sweet-smelling chemicals rushing down my throat. I take a step back but I stumble and grab a cafe chair to steady myself.
    â€˜You don’t look good,’ she tells me.
    â€˜I didn’t sleep very well,’ I explain. ‘Frankly, my experiences in the toilet haven’t been too pleasant either. I’m sweating a lot and my stomach feels uneasy. Queasy, I feel very queasy.’
    â€˜Coffee’s not for everyone. Perhaps you should drink tea instead. Take a few moments every morning perhaps—treat yourself to a pot of orange pekoe leaf tea. You’ll find it’s better suited to your nervous system. Our culture has so many problems and diseases that stem from stress and anxiety, and there’s nothing that generates and promotes these things like the addiction to the coffee bean.’
    I’m starting to feel disorientated. People are pushing past me to get into the store and others are coming out with steaming takeaway cups filled with the delicious beverage that will give me the boost I need to get through the next few hours of my life. ‘Shut up, you scandalous hypocrite. You’re here for the same reason I am. You need the coffee bean as well.’
    â€˜I drink decaf.’
    â€˜Decaf?’ I say. ‘Decaf!’
    â€˜Yes, decaf. Decaf indeed.’
    â€˜Don’t talk to me about decaffeinated coffee. It’s like taking a shower in a raincoat.’
    â€˜I don’t think so,’ she says.
    â€˜It’s like eating one of those burgers made out of lentils and cabbage.’
    â€˜No, it’s not,’ she says, looking at me like I’m someone to be pitied.
    â€˜Should I remind you I’m carrying a weapon?’ I reach below my arm and remove my Kimber 1911 Compact from a holster I bought for it yesterday afternoon. ‘You don’t require further demonstrations, do you?’ I pull it out and hold it before her.
    â€˜It’s not a good idea. There’s a room full of coffee drinkers here, after all. Every single one of them desperate for that first hit, just like you. There’s no way you can keep a trump card like that in a room full of losing gamblers.’
    â€˜What?’ I blink at her. ‘Just move!’ I wave the gun with two sharp movements to the right.
    She steps aside with a sorrowful expression. I see the line has changed. Everyone in it has removed a firearm from a pocket or handbag and they all have these guns pointed at me. Thirty barrels are trained on my head, chest and stomach. I blink but I can’t really take in the image of all these respectable city workers armed with such deadly weapons.
    I look over to Bradley the Barista and ask him, ‘What’s going on here, Brad? Didn’t I invent the game? It’s my ball, isn’t it? I get to say how we play. Bradley—tell these people!’
    The barista wipes his hands with a tea towel and a regretful look passes across his face. He says, ‘I’m sorry, Mr Bushnell. No more coffee for you.’
    â€˜What?’ I ask the question meekly but I feel my heart kick in my chest