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 conversation of 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 conversation of 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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