He blinked slowly, trying to regain focus. The futility of that particular exercise became immediately apparent. Hauling hard on his cigarette, he used what little mental capacity he had remaining to turn away from the dead squirrel in the ashtray, and back to his coffee.

As he slurped noisily on the dark thick gunk in the cup trying to pass itself off as coffee, he felt the wheels of cognition slowly begin to turn again.

“Caffeine,” he thought “has to be the greatest thing in the Universe.”

Taking another drag on his cigarette gave him pause though, as he considered nicotine’s place on the universal ladder of greatness.

The combination of stimulants very slowly wormed its way into his brain, allowing coherent thought once again. He set down his cup, next to the ashtray, and was shocked to see the dead squirrel get up. It chittered noisily, and proceeded to take a sip from his mug.

The waitress behind the counter looked over.

"Aristotle likes his coffee the way he likes his women. Hot and black."