A Cup of Coffee

It's there still.

George sat in the coffeeshop booth and thought, while a hot cup of java steamed in his line of sight. He didn’t see it, because his mind was somewhere else. Someone else had put it there.

I wonder if the reader would understand if the story ended here?

Because you do not talk about the things that were on George’s mind. Writing about them is just as unacceptable, but here we are.

George was daydreaming about doing violence, and not just ordinary violence. Fighting fire with fire, because nothing less would do the job. Knives, guns, explosives, all too simple. The crime needed to bring about suffering. It needed to be so heinous that the action received attention from absolutely everyone, and it also needed to target more than one individual.

And that was the hard part. One man would not be able to carry it out, he reasoned. Striking one might alarm another. Simultaneity was a critical feature.

And it had to happen. Soon.

There were considerations, of course. Avoiding collateral damage, anonymity, coordination, and certainly, fear. Not because it was necessary, but because it was deserved.

George rolled his backpack over and found a pen and pad. This would not be a list on a computer. He wrote, and thought, and wrote. Call a meeting. Seek interested people, keep names out of it until selection was complete. Acquire materials. Assemble. Establish a suitable timeline.

Execute.

George put away the pad and pen and got up to leave.

The coffee on the table, left untouched.

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