Saint Zach of Murray Hill: The Caffeinated Prophet
I was born in 1477, not in Florence or Ghent—but in Jacksonville, Florida, beneath a sun that felt more like judgment than warmth. By the age of twelve, I had forsaken water, wine, and sleep for one thing: coffee. Not the watered-down slop of monks—but rich, roaring, eye-twitching brew strong enough to resurrect a bishop.
The visions came quickly.
Pink birds. Tall, strange, divine. Flamingos—wading through my dreams like saints on stilts.
I built my first flamingo farm in the swamps of Murray Hill, where I raised them on discipline, Gregorian chants, and beans roasted by lightning. They multiplied. They marched. They pirouetted through midnight fog.
People called me unhinged. The clergy tried to exorcise my birds.
But when the flamingos began to spell scripture with their necks and my roast reached the Vatican, they changed their tune.
I am Zach of Murray Hill: first of the bean, shepherd of the flock, patron saint of the pink and jittery.
Drink deep, and remember me.
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