More of the same I am afraid. Calculate the milliliters on your own. I got teh alpha und teh omegah.
The start was signaled by a single shot. Muscles that had been loosened in preparation for the burst so long awaited suddenly went into action. The espresso was not only necessary but was also sufficient. Nothing beats it, millions agree and that must mean its true. I see plenty people in this mode of action throughout the day. Machines need their fuel, humans need their coffee. When technology becomes developed enough to support brain implants, we’ll need electricity.
I suspect around the same time wool shirts will become the source of elaborate nano-tech static electricity jokes. Of course only children will make these jokes. Adults will take them seriously since up to 2% their older model chips can still be wrecked havoc on by woolen shirts. But children could care less. They always proceed so simply, back to first principles as it were, ready to rediscover the wheel, or a traumatic experience in this case. But of course that would be deep in the future and I have gotten off track as usual.
Sitting in the coffee shop I look around and notice certain details. The middle class, yesterday’s newspaper, two pens, one useless, a queue of people waiting for coffee, tired zombie-like expressions on the coffee crew, a red dress coming out of the bathroom, and some cookie crumbs on a napkin. What a pathetic scene, honestly. I should split with it, but I hear things. Interesting things.
“The mentality is strikingly foreign to me. Its like I’m stuck in the twilight zone.” says one.
“Yeah?”, the other.
“I mean, for you this probably isn’t the case, but for me, it could be nothing but the case.”
“What do you mean?” – puzzled.
“Well, you wanna hear the long or the short version?”
“I wanna hear the long one, but…”
“But you only got time for the short one, right?”
“Well, yeah, my lunch break is turning into dinner, if you know what I mean.”
“Yeah. Sorry, well, basically the short and skinny of it can be summed up in a quote by some hopeless philosopher whose name I no longer remember. ‘Those who don’t figure out love at an early age, will never figure it out.’ Or something like that. But the jist of it obvious, I think. I never figured out love in school, and I still don’t get it. Its like some strange spectacle where two people become their own favorite illusions and…”
“Ah, yeah, I see where you’re going with this. Man, look… Look- Maan. All I gotta say is that quote is basically bullshit. Love may be bullshit, so call it what it is if that is what it is. But I challenge you to find something better.”
“Yeah, I guess. But you gotta find it.”
“Yes, you do. And I gotta go to work. And you can give me the long version under the whiskey, on the rocks-later. Later!”
“Peace.” he says “I guess.” I suspect he thinks.
I turn my attention to the newspaper headline. It speaks of the latest juicy tits uncovered by soon to be anonymous, now immortal Idols. Under the shadow of the mammories is a more respectable article written by Washir S. Landon of the St. Augustine Gazette. My newly spotted friend is about to miss it himself, lead by common sense no doubt.
“Striking New Evidence in Mase Case”
While our buddy didn’t read the article, from his scan he detected the key words, “AP reports…” “…SA Police followed up on a lead from senator’s aide…,” “…search of Senator’s premises found bank transcripts with withdrawals from O.L.P. linked overseas accounts…,” “no case can be made at this point…,” “Abdul Al-Harizi” “…not a suspect…,” “…a person of interest.” A sufficient scan. My own scan revealed nothing more substantial. The jist of it is that for one reason or another the police thinks its a better idea to release the OLP scenario, and have this Al-Harizi cat associated with Sen. Verrazzano. But the transcripts are significant.
I have to admit, on some background level a part of me already wanted both of them publicly executed in St. Augustine park. Nooses and everything, hot dog salesmen making big bucks, and old ladies discussing the gruesome details with respectable glee. The sheer joy and responsibility of having that mafia motherfucker and that towel-head bastard expeditedly shipped to hell, for eternal damnation, will have to fall on the conspiracy minded local vigilante. The rest of us will have the admittedly less enjoyable task of objectively potentially sending them to purely temporal hell through a jury of their peers, suspected mafia figures and terrorists, of course.
If our buddy thought the same thing, he must have thought it in a microsecond, because he quickly folded up the paper, and started fidgeting with his watch, looking for an excuse to leave the joint.
