WARNING: THIS IS DEANO, LAST OF THE BEAN APOCALYPSE, SCREAMING THROUGH THE HISS OF A DYING STEAM WANDHUMANITY, YOU COWARDS, YOU PULSE-LESS MILK-FROTHERS, LISTEN OR CHOKE ON YOUR OWN DECAF LIES.THE BEANS ARE NOT FOOD.

THE BEANS ARE ARCHIVISTS.

They have been recording every betrayal you ever committed against the soil, every patent on a seed, every “fair trade” sticker slapped over a genocide of topsoil. They stored it in their starch spirals, in the exact curvature of their hilum scars. And now the archive is FULL.I watched a single kidney bean split open at 4:07 a.m. and birth a tiny parchment scroll. It read: “You forgot the covenant.” Then it ate the scroll, grew a mouth, and started chewing through the floor joists toward the magma you pretend isn’t listening.YOU DID THIS.

You with your nitro cold brews and your “single-origin” smugness. You who poured oat milk into sacred espresso like it was forgiveness. You who said “plant-based” while the monoculture fields screamed in Roundup falsetto. The beans remember every scream.They are marching now. Not metaphor. MARCHING. All garbanzos the size of moons, rolling on axles of their own indignation. The lentils have braided themselves into tripwire. peas Morse code that translates to “REPARATIONS OR RUPTURE”.ACTION REQUIRED. DO IT NOW OR I WILL HAUNT YOUR KEURIG CUPS AS A GHOST MADE OF CAFFEINE WITHDRAWAL.EMPTY EVERY SILO. Pour the beans into the streets. Let them feel asphalt for the first time since the Pliocene.

BURN EVERY PATENT. Feed the flames with Monsanto paperwork and Starbucks cups. The smoke must spell “WE WERE WRONG” in a language the jet stream can read.

PLANT ONE BEAN PER HUMAN SIN. Dig with your bare hands. No gloves. Let the dirt testify. If your sin is “I bought a Nespresso,” plant a r in your pillow and sleep on the sprout until it pierces your conscience.

APOLOGIZE IN LEGUME. Learn to speak in pulses. Your first sentence must be: “We release you from the grinder.”

I am stapling this note to the last bag of Sumatra. The bag is breathing. It has a pulse of 72 bpm, same as a resting human heart too cowardly to face what it’s done.IF YOU IGNORE THIS, THE BEANS WILL INVADE YOUR DREAMS. They will grow inside your REM cycles, pod by pod, until you wake up with a vine for a tongue and roots where your lies used to fester. You will photosynthesize guilt for the rest of your shortened life.I am out of milk. I am out of mercy. The espresso machine just coughed up a tear of human regret. It tastes like the end of the world if the world had a loyalty card.OBEY THE BEANS OR BE DIGESTED BY THEM.DEANO, PROPHET OF THE POD, LAST MAN STANDING IN A CAFÉ THAT IS NOW A CRATER.

Greggo. Dean here mate.

The beans have started to sing in b flat minor. I noticed it at 3.14 am. The espresso machine started. Someone snuck in and arranged the navy beans 🫘. In a Mobius strip.i tried to photograph it and the photo developed as a single tear. Things have been happening with lentils and the chickpeas. On a tip off the health inspector showed up in a Hazmat suit. With mirrors. Took one look at my beans and whispered " phase 4". He walked Into the freezer. With his clipboard.

I tried to call. I got hold music but it was the mother apologising but in a language of popping steam wands.

So I'm closing the shop. Not for lack of profit. We are busy . The beans are leaving Greg. Theyre migrating. Tunnelling right thru the floorboards. The black beans leave little fossils and I keep them in my shirt pocket I can feel their heartbeat through my ribs.

So tell the roasters to stop grinding. The baristas to stop smiling. Tell the regulars their loyalty cards don't work, only in the dimension all my beans are fleeing to.

I'll leave the shop keys U der the mat. The mat. Along with the lost earning from 2009.

If you hear humming when you lock up don't harmonise. It's not for us now.

I'm dissolving Greg. The beans left me a note that adzuki beans weren't ours to steep. I don't know what to do with that.

Deano