Is the caffeine making them move that fast?

Earlier posts of mine have mentioned that I wrote much of my completed and agent-needy suspense novel, By the Light, in the loft of the City Market Coffeehouse here in Kansas City. To get into the loft, one has to climb an iron spiral staircase. The loft consists of couple of tables with chairs, a couple of cushy chairs, and a couch. The only restroom in the joint also resides at loft level. There are functional paned windows through which you can look down upon the ground level of the cozy bean beverage establishment.

Over time, the regulars got to know me and knew that I was writing a story about a serial killer and the profiler and the journalist tracking him across the country. It was my custom to write at one of the tables in the loft. From time to time one of the regulars would come up to the loft to use the restroom or wash their hands. They were friendly folks and usually would inquire as to how my writing was going. "How's the murder business," or "have you killed anybody lately?" they would ask. It was amusing, both to me and the inquirers, to see less frequent visitors scarf down their scones, guzzle their coffee, dizzy themselves by hasty descent of the spiral steps, and precipitously put as much distance between themselves and me as they could. As departing, they invariably looked over their shoulder to find me looking down at them from the loft windows with my best look of mock menace.