Flash Fiction
A Spot of Coffee and a Spot of Trouble
Reginald “Reggie” Kensington III was the epitome of British aristocracy. He wore a top hat with such finesse it could’ve been crafted by a royal milliner, and his tuxedo always had a shine that hinted at a lineage of impeccable valet service. His monocle was more for show than sight, but it gave him the distinguished air of someone who knew his way around a proper cup of tea — or in Reggie’s case, coffee. Because Reggie had a secret passion, a rebellious streak, if you will: he adored coffee, the stronger the better.
One brisk London morning, Reggie awoke to find his butler had taken the day off. This was a disaster of Downton Abbey proportions. Who was going to bring him his morning coffee? He’d never had to fetch it himself — fetching was for his Labrador, Winston. But desperate times call for desperate measures, and Reggie, still in his silk pajamas, decided to take matters into his own manicured hands.
He threw on his top hat and tuxedo, slipping his feet into the finest Italian leather shoes, and strode out the door like he was off to a royal gala. His destination: the corner café, a quaint establishment with more hipsters than high society. As he entered, the barista — a young man with a mustache that could have been borrowed from a Victorian portrait — raised an eyebrow. Top hats weren’t the usual attire at this place.
Reggie approached the counter with the confidence of a duke addressing his subjects. “A double espresso, please,” he said, his accent as crisp as a freshly pressed cravat.
The barista, clearly unaccustomed to such formal requests, blinked at him. “Sure, mate. You’ll need to get in line, though.”
Reggie glanced at the queue — it was longer than the River Thames and filled with people wearing yoga pants and ear buds. He wasn’t about to waste his time among the rabble, so he decided to do what any self-respecting posh toff would do: he tried to bribe his way to the front. “I’ll give you five quid if you make my coffee now,” he said, pulling out a crisp note from his silk-lined pocket.
The barista looked at the bill and then back at Reggie. “Sorry, mate. Can’t accept tips for skipping the line.”
Reggie was not one to be thwarted by such trivialities. He adjusted his monocle again and leaned in, whispering, “How about ten quid? And I’ll throw in a complimentary elocution tip for the patrons.”
But the barista was having none of it. He shook his head. Reggie’s patience, already thin from the lack of caffeine, snapped like a cheap cravat. He stormed to the front of the line, knocking over a stack of cups and causing a commotion that sent the other patrons into a frenzy.
Security was called, and before Reggie could say “Good day, sir,” he was handcuffed and escorted out, his top hat slightly askew and his monocle hanging by a thread. The other patrons snickered as he was led away, their morning coffee now accompanied by unexpected entertainment.
In the holding cell, Reggie sat on the bench, still wearing his tuxedo, though it was now a bit rumpled. The other inmates, who were mostly there for minor infractions, couldn’t help but stare at him. “What’re you in for, mate?” asked a guy with a tattoo of a wyvern on his arm.
Reggie sighed, adjusting his monocle yet again. “Apparently, attempting to procure a coffee without adhering to the commoners’ queue is a crime in this town.”
When the guard brought him a cup of jailhouse coffee, Reggie took a sip and grimaced — it was like drinking muddy rainwater. He knew one thing for sure: next time, he’d wait in line like everyone else, or at least bring his own butler to handle these sorts of inconveniences.
Laina Stanford’s stories are a blend of humor, sci-fi, and shenanigans. From her mysterious coffee sanctuary, she brings pixels to life while brewing coffee so strong it could power a spaceship.
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