Creature of Habit

by johannespunkt

He was a creature of habit, the kind of man who would cultivate spots with his coffee mug on his breakfast table so that after a few years, there was a pale circle on it like the opposite of a coffee stain on an old map.

Every Tuesday, we would find out whether the barrels of white wine that reeked of fish had made their Rube Goldberg way into the speakeasy, and it would always be down to whether that man had stood guard or not. He was unbribeable; he would not know what to do with the extra money.