Coroner Cafe

    When they mention the Coroner Café, the word seedy comes to mind. Seedy? Dingy, seamy, sleazy, all adjectives used to describe the remnants of a past time. A time when you could be, and were, scrutinized with the skeptical eye of pawn shop proprietor. 

    It wasn’t because of the name, which was the Christian family moniker of Bartholomew Coroner, a devoted father, husband, and underworld figure referred to, in the annals of renowned crime families as, “Death.” If you were in need of a poison to relay a certain message, and were not sure of the spelling or vocabulary, Bartholomew was the man to see.

    It was claimed that during the early years of the Coroner dynasty, more people who crossed the Coroner threshold joined the Morgue Internship Association, than left unaffiliated, to eat another day; but then speculation is cheap, and only becomes more circumstantial with each passing rumor.

    Bartholomew, as so many who dabble in the dark arts, succumbed to negligence, his. His habit of licking his fingers proved to be the source of his demise. It was rumored authentically by someone who knew someone, that he was so imbued with cyanide he would not return to dust until the earth was reclaimed by fire or nuclear war, whichever came first, although it would matter little to Bartholomew Coroner.

    Prohibition, the depression, WWII all came to a screeching halt, as people were exhausted by life and found the assurance provided by the Coroner Café, a safe bet when it came to believing life went on regardless of cost. The cost of course being the primary motivation for dining at the café. It wasn’t until death once again belonged to the archives of the past, that people began to frequent the café once again, in rememberance of its lurid history.

    Cripple Creek Connelly, the illegitimate son of Typsee, the trapeze artists assistant, and part time spotter, made his fortune by taking the traditionally bad habits of soldiers, and turning them into lessons they could confound their own children with some day. Morality, certainly not ethics, played a big part in CC’s outlook on life, but his genetic connection to his past proved more valuable. He had inherited the heart of carnival barker and the devious mind of a midway games provocateur.

    CC had witnessed the growth of hyperbole, as related to convincing people they needed, what they did not have or want, but couldn’t live without. To take a pig, put lipstick on it, and charge to watch it turn into a proverbial silk purse, was one talent CC found most useful in a postwar world, where everything was for sale. Having been deprived of so much, allowed those who survived to feel they deserved whatever life had to offer. The Coroner Café was just such a place. Its reputation had proceeded it.

    CC won the Coroner Cafe from Bartholomew in a card game, some say only a few days after Bartholomew’s death, but then calendars have been known to lie, or made to. 

Bartholomew’s son Koffin was the final bet, the call of CC Connelly’s wager, giving CC a victory over the aces and eights hand of Bartholomew.

    Where Bartholomew was a connoisseur of elixirs, his son Koffin was said to be, described by a metaphor, lacking several elements in the makeup of water. Word has it that Koffin although slow, had not stopped functioning totally, but had been relegated to watching ants build condominiums on the walkway in front of the café by his new benefactor.  Koffin was also susceptible to any and all suggestions that advocated for the rationing of air.  It was rumored that air was on the brink of extinction, and to prevent Its rationing, people would need to breathe less. He was an easy target for the likes of CC. 

    CC promised Koffin he would refurbish the Coroner Café to its previous state of debauchery, where people could come, despite present sanitary regulations, that he was negotiating to have abolished, to relive the history of war, poverty, and the conservative life that held idealistic fervor in the hearts of so many, not affected by the war, depression, or poverty. 

    Koffin, although not considered a card in the deck of a trickster, had managed to inherit a sliver of compassion. He was affiliated more with his adopted ant family, than his own, who had nothing to do with him unless it benefited them directly. The contentiousness between the proposed consortium of the Coroner’s and CC Connelly was held only by Koffin. He could not grasp the idealism behind CC’s proposal to return to the atmosphere and environment of the past, to take advantage of a nostalgia based on deprivation, and his desire to not forget, but move past the impoverished philosophy of sacrifice.

    Koffin, like so many trapped in the shadows of a past they had not contributed to, but indirectly benefited from, wanted only to be free like his friends the ants, who worked towards building communities, not personal aggrandizement. He was at heart a progressive socialist who believed there was enough plenty to share, while continuing to encourage personal ingenuity and creativity. He was outnumbered not only amongst his family, but the majority of societal members who were focused on personal advantages over communal co-operation.

    Had it not been for Rembrandt Hennessey, the newest member of the city zoning commission, the Coroner Café would not have burned to the ground. Rembrandt’s acceptance of gratuities, and his ability to turn blind eyes towards problems, led to the electrical inginutiy of the fire that consumed the building, or so it was rumored.

    Truth be told, it was Koffin who decided he would rather destroy the past, to save a future. Although he was considered slightly more intelligent than a phone book by many, he was a keen observer of people and their peculiar talents. Not only was his father a magician when it came to the deadly elements, he also dabbled in the art of logical deception. It was a term he only used when speaking to Koffin, who spent much of his time observing his father devise objects, that would be considered integral to the normal operation of any device.

    Bartholomew was particularly fond of electricity and its characteristics; heat generated by its manipulation and the subsequent equipment failure. A bated mouse trap strategically placed, awaiting the visitation of an interloper, who when caught in the hunger of the moment, sets off a chain reaction causing the trap and the captured intruder, to fall from its perch to the floor where the evidence is cremated in the name of intuition.

    Koffin stood on the sidewalk, surrounded by his new family, watching as the fire consumed the past, replacing the contested nature of necessity and conservatism, with a progressive cog in a new wheel dedicated to possibility, regardless of the shadows of the past that keep so many in the dark.