If anyone were to say that Godot loved coffee, it would only be in extreme understated jest. The man was absolutely enamored with it. Coffee was his life, his death, his ying and his yang. He cared not for the trappings of white milk and dainty cream, preferring instead to take his coffee as it came, straightforward and honest. Of course, he could add a little sugar to make it a bit easier to swallow, while still maintaining the trustworthiness of the dark substance.

Black as hell and as sweet as sin. That was how he did his coffee. So one can only imagine what happened when his fountain of nectar ran dry.

He was standing there, in the prosecutor's lounge, staring at the three words that seemed to devour his soul in their ink, posted on the coffee maker.


The spoon in his cup jittered as his hand began to shake, softly at first, but it grew increasingly frenzied the more the words on that sign mocked him.

"Oh! Good morning, sir!" A jolly detective, with an unshaved face and a big, shabby overcoat, poked his head into the room. "Sorry about the machine, there. Y'see, I forgot to grind the beans before I put them into the machine, and the whole darn thing just started smokin' like all get out. You wouldn't believe the-"


Detective Dick Gumshoe had one hand over his head, counting his lucky stars for the closest save he had ever had with an incoming object. His luck turned for the worse, however, when Prosecutor Godot turned his gaze upon him, nothing but rage encompassing his entire frame. "Detective…do you know the story about the goose and the fox?"

"Um…" Dick sweated nervously, wondering whether to answer this question or to immediately flee the room. "Can't say I do, pal…"

"Awful story really. You see, the fox and goose are having a discussion. The fox says that he is the mightier one, and to prove his point, he proceeds to attack the goose. The goose, however, uses his wings to flee from danger and fly away. Do you see where I'm getting at?"

The good detective pondered this in his mind. "Um…no…I can't say I do…would you mind telling me?"

Godot cracked his knuckles and advanced on his soon-to-be victim. "My point, Shabby, is that I'm the fox…and you've got your wings clipped!"

A badly beaten and bruised detective was found later that day stuffed behind the couch.

"The court has convened for the trial of Ms. Robin Banks." The judge's voice boomed out into the courtroom, his long white beard and bald head deceptively giving him the look of an Eastern philosopher wise beyond his years. "Are we all ready?"

"The defense is ready, your honor." Phoenix Wright, up and coming defense attorney, stood calmly on one side of the room, though he was trying very hard to show that he wasn't, in reality, incredibly nervous. He ran a hand through his swept-back hair and straightened up his blue suit, just to make sure there were no telling signs.

Godot, opposite Mr. Wright, merely stood there, slouched forward, his head in his hands. His dark green shirt and vertically-striped beige vest were a bit disheveled, and the electronic mask that he wore to see seemed to be dimmer than it usually was.

"Mr. Godot…," the Judge started, tentatively, "is the prose-"

"What?! What do you want from me?!" Godot slammed both of his hands down on the desk, the horizontal bands on his mask glowing fiercely. The courtroom was silent for a few moments before Godot registered what was going on in his mind. "Oh…right…I'm ready…"

The Judge gave the prosecutor a strange look, then, with a swing of his gavel, sent the trial in motion. Godot, his voice sluggish, called forth the first witness for the day.

"Mr. Marty Graw…please…tell us about…something…" Godot's face then promptly hit the table. If one listened closely enough, one could hear soft snores coming from the exhausted man.

The witness looked at the prosecutor with a tinge of puzzlement. "Something…? Something like what?"

No response from Godot prodded Mr. Wright to answer the question. "Perhaps…you can tell us what you saw the day of the robbery. Is that alright?"

Mr. Graw shrugged. "Well…I suppose. It was about eight in the evening when I was doing my rounds. I was walking up the stai-"


Mr. Graw, Phoenix, and the Judge all looked in astonishment at Mr. Godot, who was clinging onto the wooden plane like it was his last means of life support. "My honor! The defense is clearly following the witness on!"

"Mr. Godot, it's 'your honor', and 'leading the witness.'" Phoenix raised an eyebrow at the strangely-acting prosecutor. "What's wrong? Have you just gone crazy?"

"Indeed, it seems as though you're not acting your natural self," the Judge said, with a tinge of concern. "Are you feeling alright? Are you sick?"

"Sick? No…no, sick? No…no, you're the ones who're sick. You…with your gavels…and your hair…or lack thereof…you just…you just allmake me want to vomit!"

The Judge banged his gavel loudly in an attempt to silence the prosecution's rambling. "Mr. Godot! You and your comments about my hair are out of order!"

"I'm out of order?!" the prosecutor cried out, raising his hands to the sky, "This whole damn court's out of order!"

It was then that Mr. Wright noticed what was missing, what had been nagging him for a long time now, but he couldn't quite place a finger on it. Godot didn't have a cup of coffee in his hand. Ever the caring one, Phoenix frantically searched for a replacement. After all, Godot was the man who said he limited himself to sixteen cups in any given trial. Who knew what kind of insane action he would take without his precious ambrosia?

A short round of mad bickering from the crazed man later, Phoenix finally rested his eyes on a paper StarDollars cup in a hand of a member of the audience. Gesturing frantically to the woman with the cup, he got her to hand it over to him, at which time he called out, "Hey, Maskhead!"


The cup went sailing over the middle of the floor, miraculously not losing a single drop. The prosecutor, even in his state of withdrawal, saw the logo imprinted on the cup, and deftly caught it with one hand. In less than a second he was chugging it down, like it was his own blood, like he needed it to even exist on this Earth. This was what he lived for. This was why he woke up every morning. This was why he was reluctant to go to sleep at night. This was his reason for being.

And yet, three seconds later, he began choking the substance up. It sprayed over the counter, over his clothes, over the evidence spread across the table, and on the floor, where Godot eventually ended up, on the verge of fainting.

The last thing he uttered before he lost consciousness was, "Damned…lattés…"

He awoke in a hospital bed, delightfully snuggly underneath the myriad of blankets and sheets. To his right, he could see an I.V. drip filled with his black holy water. He winced in frustration as he recalled the events of the past day. Of all things that Trite had to give him…a freaking latté? He groaned as he sat up in his bed, taking quite a notice of his bedside stand.

It was if heaven had just revealed its pearly gates to him, for before him was the largest pile coffee beans he had ever seen. Little bags upon little bags of varied brand names and blends were stacked at his bedside, each from a different person he knew. Yet, there was one thing that didn't quite fit.

There, on the top of this hill of cocoa, was a small post-it attached to a thin book. A glance at the book's title revealed it to be "The Twelve-Step Program for Dummies." The note was signed, "From a concerned spirit, M.F." Godot stared blankly at the note, then burst into laughter, and the little book on addiction control did not cease to make him smile until many weeks afterward.

Godot loved his coffee straight black and a bit sweet. It was how he liked his truth, as well.