Right before sunrise, my walk towards the cafe was interrupted by a raspy voice.
“Sire, does the Messiah compel you to spare a few coins for one in need?” asked the half-naked man, seated on the hard, wet asphalt of the street.
“Sorry, the Messiah compels me to be elsewhere.” I stepped past him, hoping he wouldn’t scare away customers, especially today. Inside, a rancid stench hit me—spoiled coffee. Ignoring it, I taped up promotional signs: Messian Mocha, Retribution Roast, Sanctifying Brew. Cheesy, right? People in this society believe anything. No surprise there, though. It’s difficult to think for yourself when you’ve been indoctrinated since birth to cling to one belief. By the time I flipped the sign to Open, The streets were already packed.
“Glory to the Via Retributionis!” the crowd clamored. Within seconds, my humble cafe was flooded—mostly due to a lack of space outside.
“Welcome to Jude’s Roast! You’re all in for a tre—”
“Holy Savior! What is that awful smell?” a customer recoiled. I had to act quickly.
“Don’t you know? This is a sacred scent of the Via Retributionis. A day of atonement, not indulgence.”
The customer frowned. “What? I don’t recall anything about the Messiah’s walk of retribution smelling like…rotten coffee…”
“Maybe you haven’t been paying attention in sermons.” I folded my arms. “If you’re not interested in today’s specials, there’s the door.” Murmurs rippled. No one left. I spun my pitch. “Anyways, The Retribution Roast is sure to clear away all of your sins! And a single sip from the Sanctifying Brew renders you immune to temptation for days!” Taking my words as gospel, they swallowed up the part where I told them the effects took at least twenty-four hours to kick in—enough time for the placebo to take hold. “Too good to be true” was thrown out alongside any belief that wasn’t Messianism a while ago. With their faith and my prices, salvation had never been so profitable. But then, the stench of unwashed clothes and damp cardboard smothered the air. I turned. It was the same ragged figure from the morning, eyes ablaze.
“This man is no believer!” he shouted, pointing at me. The crowd hushed. “Look at how he’s using your faith to rip you off! These drinks are triple the price of other cafes! I checked!” Before I could respond, Three guards in yellow and white burst through the door.
“What’s all this ruckus about?” The lead guard barked. My chance. I stepped forward with a respectful tone.
“So kind of you to check in, sires. I hate to say it but… I fear we have a heretic in our midst.”
The homeless man’s eyes widened. “Wait, what?”
Shaking my head, I sighed. “He slandered the Via Retributionis, mocked the Messiah’s divine sacrifice…it breaks my heart, truly.” The guards stiffened. One stared at the man.
“You dare speak against the Messiah’s holy march? On this sacred day?”
“What? No! He’s lying! He—” Two of the guards seized him by the arms.
“No, no, wait—” They dragged him out into the street, his protests vanishing into the street’s roar. A few people shook their heads, with zero regard for what the man said earlier. It was too easy.
“Shame,” one man murmured. “Disrespecting the Messiah, of all things…”
With a hand on my chest, I pretended to mourn. “May he find redemption.” I turned towards my faithful customers and clapped my hands. “Alright, folks! Who’s ready for another round of Sanctifying Brews?” The register chimed. The lines moved up. Business was good.