Coffee was the crack of the 50s, apparently. Mothers would turn into hideous witches, twitchy and snippy creatures who pecked their children until they trudged out into the cold to join the circus, or live in the jungle.
Helpfully wordy police detective, too. Bet he always talks up the Postum. Can’t shut up about it. No one else drinks it. They say it tastes like muddy oats, or something. As the watch commander put it: Christ, Harrigan, this dogpiss is for pussies! And the detective just bit his tongue. Fine. See how big you feel when the invisible man with the jetpack starts flying over your house.