On the dark brown kitchen table stands a round white cup filled with the darkest blackest tar.
»It's not tar, dear«, says a friendly female mammoth dressed up like a diner waitress. »It's just black coffee.«
»And it is the damned best coffee in the whole wide Western hemisphere«, the llama adds. »This is, excuse me,a damn fine cup of coffee, Norma.«
»It is tar«, I insist. »And it is thousands of years old. And it holds the DNA of those ancient mammoths they have cloned our waitress of.«
The two animals are ignoring me, starting a private conversationof their own.
»I have heard he is writing a book«, the mammoth lady says, asking the llama at the same time, »Another cup of coffee, dear?«
I lift the round white cup from the table gazing into its plain black surface like into a mirror. I could swear I saw a young, blonde woman's face on that surface only moments ago, like a spirit trapped in tar.
I turn the full cup upside down and no liquid spills onto the kitchen table. So much for coffee, my ass, my donkey. It is either tar or frozen solid.
As I look again, the blonde girl's reflection - or spirit - is gone.
»Yes«, I can hear the llama say, »he's writing a novel and he wants to call it
»It's not tar, dear«, says a friendly female mammoth dressed up like a diner waitress. »It's just black coffee.«
»And it is the damned best coffee in the whole wide Western hemisphere«, the llama adds. »This is, excuse me,a damn fine cup of coffee, Norma.«
»It is tar«, I insist. »And it is thousands of years old. And it holds the DNA of those ancient mammoths they have cloned our waitress of.«
The two animals are ignoring me, starting a private conversationof their own.
»I have heard he is writing a book«, the mammoth lady says, asking the llama at the same time, »Another cup of coffee, dear?«
I lift the round white cup from the table gazing into its plain black surface like into a mirror. I could swear I saw a young, blonde woman's face on that surface only moments ago, like a spirit trapped in tar.
I turn the full cup upside down and no liquid spills onto the kitchen table. So much for coffee, my ass, my donkey. It is either tar or frozen solid.
As I look again, the blonde girl's reflection - or spirit - is gone.
»Yes«, I can hear the llama say, »he's writing a novel and he wants to call it
'Life and Adventures of Bromford Bibble'.
And I would like to add the following subtitle,
'… or One Man's Descent into Madness'.«
And I cannot stop thinking, »Who killed Norma Palmer? Who killed Norma Palmer? Who killed Norma Palmer? …«
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Today is Tuesday, the 5th of August, 2025.
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