Let's forgive the coffeeshops

a note to the reader: I would like the reader to note that I wrote
this short story, from beginning to end, in less than 25 minutes.

The Descent of Man
by Sean Nelson

Herod, a Palestinian who lived in Jerusalem, waited in line in a
coffeeshop.

Herod had always liked coffeeshops. They were such an explosion of
energy.

When it was his turn to order, he told the barista, "I'd like a
sixteen ounce mocha."

"With no whip cream?," she asked him. She knew Herod, who was one of
the coffeeshops most regular customers.

Herod flashed her a smile. "With no whip cream."

Herod focused on what he was going to do as the barista made his
mocha. This mocha was to be his last wordly pleasure.

Of course, after he blew himself up, he would make love to seventy-two
holy virgins for all of eternity. This was the fate that awaited all
suicide bombers who died to free Palestine from the Jewish
oppressors.

But Herod didn't believe in the seventy-two holy virgins. Nonetheless,
he was determined to blow himself up in this crowded coffeeshop.

Why? Because his girlfriend had been killed in a recent slaughter of
Palestinian civilians. The world had ignored the massacre. The United
Nations had wanted to investigate the massacre but Israel had refused
and the world had backed Israel.

"Filthy jews," Herod muttered as he thought of his girlfriend rotting
in a mass grave. He tried to picture the people in the coffeeshop, many
of whom he knew, as the ruthless Israeli soldiers that occupied his
homeland.

A Jewish man, an aquaintance of Herod's, approached Herod.

"How are you today, Ethan?," Herod asked him, pleasantly. He thought
it was somewhat of a joke. Yes, he could be friendly with these
people.

"Well, I'm a little disturbed about what's going on in Palestine,"
said Ethan.

"No matter. The matter will be taken care of shortly," rejoined
Herod.

"Here's your mocha, Herod," said the barista as she placed the drink
on the counter. Herod took the drink and inhaled gulp after gulp,
hoping to burn away his compassion, his uncertainty.

"Well, I think it does matter. It's just not right what's happening
over there," said Ethan.

"Filthy jews," Herod muttered under his breath. He reached for the
cord in his jacket pocket. He merely had to pull the cord and it would
all go way. He wouldn't have to remember his girlfriend anymore.

Across the room, a pretty Jewish girl smiled at Herod. Her sharp teeth
flashed and her dusky blonde hair shone in the sun. She was very
pretty, thought Herod. Maybe she'd be one of the seventy-two virgins.
But wait, she was a jewish parasite, he reminded himself.

Herod's head was swimming.

"Are you okay?," Ethan asked, concerned. "You look sick."

"We'll have to forgive the coffeeshops," muttered Herod.

"What's that, pal?", asked Ethan.

"Filthy jews," muttered Herod, this time audibly. Ethan looked
hurt.

Herod stalked out of the coffeeshop, mocha in hand. It was all too
dizzy, energetic and exploding. A coffeeshop is a miserable place to
kill yourself, thought Herod. A coffeeshop is a place to live.

The seventy-two virgins would have to wait.