Cocoa Puffs and Caffiene
Inspired by this gif from Make My Monday:
Jim was sitting at the kitchen table in his horribly patterned pajamas when Moran walked in.
Perhaps walked was the wrong word. Perhaps trudged was a more operative word. Or maybe even that verb failed to apply to the way Moran’s body seemed to be propelled by sheer bloody will as he staggered bleary-eyed and caffeine free, into the kitchen.
Jim was a smart man. He really was. Intelligent. Sharp. Brilliant. And even though he was psychopath who claimed to fear nothing, his clever sense of self-preservation kept him sitting at the breakfast table, silent except for the small sound of his spoon as is moved through the milk, chasing his Cocoa Puffs.
Moran moved over to the coffee maker. The coffee had just finished percolating. Jim had worked out exactly when to load and start the coffee maker to make sure Moran’s coffee was blacker than his own soul and strong enough to knock a lesser man to his knees.
Moran carefully poured the black liquid into a coffee cup, before lifting the steaming mug to his face. For a moment, he simply inhaled the humid, moist, aromatic air above the mug. His face loosened infinitesimally as the smell hit his nostrils. Then, he placed his lips on the mug and started his first coffee infusion for the day.
Jim watched, carefully, out of one eye as Moran finished that mug, re-poured, finished the second mug, and then re-poured again. Moran then, finally, turned around to Moriarty. Jim, his little innocent kid smile on his face, his head cocked, shyly raised a hand at Moran in acknowledgement.
A small smile, a small, small, small smile breaks out on Moran’s face. “’Morning”.
And Moriarty knows it’s safe to talk. He stops being so careful about the clink of the spoon on the side of the bowl. The power in the room shifts. Moran is no longer the most dangerous man in the kitchen. Moran without coffee will happily kill a man slowly. Moriarty, at any given time, will happily kill a man slowly after eviscerating his entire family in front of his eyes happily any instant of any day.
“You know, that black sludge you call coffee will very likely kill you.”
Moran doesn’t take offense, just gently sitting down across the table from Jim. “You’re just worried that it’ll take me from you before you get a chance to properly enjoy killing me.”
Moriarty’s head moves from side-to-side, as if he this is obvious, and, then, as if this avenue is not worth considering for the sheer banality, takes a bite of Cocoa Puffs before the chocolate becomes comepletely washed away by the milk: “I need you for something special today.”
“Hmm?”
Moriarty slides a file folder across the table at his lover, his partner, his friend. Moran flips it open without hesitation, still sipping at the tarrish liquid in his cup. A photograph of a short blond man, with blue eyes and a pert little nose falls out. Moran picks it up.
“I need a heart burned out today.”