Please tell all your friends about this! I will not go unnoticed!
As requested, here is the first installment of the coffeeaddiction/sexismorbid/3circledsun fan fiction. I hope you enjoy!
An Entirely Accurate Eye-Witness Account,
By Prunella D'ouchebag
Any individual, sufficiently ill-fated to be strolling down Ezra avenue on the balmy afternoon of April 19th, 2004, would find themselves chilled to the bone - shaken, stirred - by a blood-curdling scream, coming from the county’s most notorious frat house, most commonly known as the Brew Barn.
One might very naturally assume - the barn being home to football yobs and co-ed hooligans - that the “brew” in question is in reference to the type of brew consisting of hops and barley, or, at least - mortared cat tranquilizers and Atavan - but no. This is not your typical fraternity. This brotherhood is based solely upon a shared passion for the coffee bean and the many products it yields us. The quarters of the Brew Barn, from the rumpus room to the commode, are dedicated to the celebration of all coffee based beverages. Cappuccino, decaf, espresso, filtered, Greek, instant, Frappe, kahuna, Turkish, and most famously - cups and cups of good old-fashioned “joe” - fill the collective surface area and digestive systems of the dwelling.
As stated formerly, a horror-stricken howl emanated from the brew barn on this ominous spring afternoon. I know this, because I happen to be the individual who was sufficiently ill fated to be strolling past the barn at the particular moment the cry was expelled.
Next thing I knew, before my lovely blue, mournful eyes, a young man with exquisite cheekbones and a faux hawk advanced recklessly from the front door of the brew barn, in a visible state of panic. He wore only a Scottish kilt, and was as wired as a rat-fink from his severe coffee-addiction. What he screamed presently is not to be related in polite company, but let it be known that it was of a most foul and ill-bred manner.
His wild, rolling, blood shot eyes fell upon my personage, and he advanced towards me. I nearly swooned from being thus approached, when he held me by the shoulders and shook me as violently as one would a teething baby.
“DID YOU SEE HER?” he asked me.
“Please sir, unhand me!” I pleaded, “I don’t understand you!”
“TELL ME, you two-karat trollop, DID YOU SEE HER!?!”
I was able to free one white-gloved hand from his confinement, and slapped him smartly across his chiseled brown cheek. He was thus physically set free from his temporary insanity, and was quickly brought to reason and intelligibility by my soothing, feminine manner.
“I’m sure I’m sorry to have frightened you so, miss, I must seem a barbarian to you. But, you see, I have just received a frightful blow!”
Once relieved from his initial frenzy, he was able to impart to me the reason behind his distress and horror: after awakening and ingesting his regular double-shot of espresso, coupled with three cups of coffee and an iced cappuccino from Starbucks, he became sensible to a horrific realization:
“My sword was gone. My beautiful, beautiful sword is gone! MY THREE THOUSAND DOLLAR ORNAMENTAL SWORD IS GONE!”
The knowledge of his misfortune endeared me to him instantly, and his super-model good looks had not passed under my detection unnoticed. I went with him into the parlor of the Brew Barn, where I served him a soothing vanilla-mocha blend, and laid a cool damp cloth on his brow. I discovered that his name was Alex, and he was a fan of football (known as Soccer in the colonies), ratings communities, Leftist politics, and drinking the brown stuff with his ‘mates’.
Here he told me the sad history of his beloved sword: his father had acquired it in the late 1980s when on an expedition to Antigua. Shortly after his return home his father had fallen ill with brain fever. As Alex sat sorrowfully by his father’s deathbed, he was given the sword and instructed to guard it with his life. It was the last keepsake he had of his beloved father, as he had been forced to use the entire family inheritance and the street price of their heirlooms to support his habit, and to cater coffee tasting parties at the barn. He displayed the sword in a place close to his heart - in a velvet case behind his computer monitor, so that it would be present in all his webcam photos, and easily accessible if he needed to sell it on the black market for more bean. He then informed me of the most sinister aspect of the tale - he perfectly knew who had taken his sword.
“It was a young lady, with whom I used to have an alliance, named Deborah, but known on the street as Deb-deb. Our connection ended in a sad state of affairs when I realized she was a lunatic, and what’s worse, a user of illegal street drugs! We parted on no friendly terms, and since then I have repeatedly received late night phone calls from her, begging that I give her money.
“As is clear to any imbecile, I am in dire financial straits and cannot be expected to hand out my hard-earned cash just so she can cook up her breakfast in a table-spoon, right?”
I could not argue with this. He continued,
“I told her this quite clearly, and hoped it would mean the end of my lowly connection, but that was too sweet a wish to come true for my star-crossed self.”
He went on to say that, two nights ago, in the wee hours of the night, Deb-deb had shown up at the Brew Barn, wildly intoxicated and raving, her messy black hair dancing before her eyes, flashing supple breasts and taut abdomen. Her pouting lips cursed him barbarously, and then she begged him for a couple of bucks so that she could continue her now month-long coke binge, so that she wouldn’t have to face reality, midterms, or her seriously concerned mother.
“I gave her a dollar twenty five so that she would have bus fair to the detox center and asked her to leave my house at once.
“She glared at me with watery eyes, and cried ‘This is because you think I’m fat, isn’t it? You college guys are all the same! You fatten us up on café lattes galore, and then you throw us away when our stomachs distend! Maybe I’ll just go make myself throw up! You’d like that, wouldn’t you? Listen, you fiend, you better cough up some cash pronto or I’ll report you to the on-campus Women’s Center for treating me like a common street whore! Don’t think they won’t believe me just... because... I’m…’ she trailed off from what she was saying as her eyes beheld my sword hanging in the drawing room. I asked her to leave again, but she just replied with ‘hey buddy, that’s a pretty sweet sword you’ve got there. I bet that sucker’s worth a fortune on the black market, eh?’ Naturally I’m very proud of my dear fathers sword, and couldn’t stop from telling her that, yes, it would be worth at least three thousand dollars to any fine arms dealer or martial arts artifact collector. A smile of satisfaction crossed her face, and she was at once fully prepared to leave, which she did presently. I was bewildered, but hoped against hope that she would now stay away, until this morning my worst fears were realized when I woke up to find my precious sword missing! By this time it’s indubitably in the evil clutches of some pawnshop huckster with a soul patch!” The heightened agitation brought on by his story caused Alex to collapse into tears, and I was given to speculation over what he had told me.
After a moment’s contemplation, I gave voice to my thoughts, “Dear Alex, the actions and utterances of the mentally ill and drug dependent must not be taken seriously. Why, she probably remembered that she had to get back to finger-painting the walls of the local strip-mall with her feces. I see no evidence to absolutely condemn the poor madwoman as yet!”
“Don’t you see, woman?! Today is April 19th! That means that tomorrow is April 20th - otherwise known as “FOUR-TWENTY DAY” amongst the criminal class! Four twenty day is Debdeb’s idea of Christmas! All the local losers, boozers and two-time users come crawling out of their musty caves at this time of year. Debdeb always indulges in the wildest of drug and crime sprees on this day when she can validate her habit in the company of the swarms of fellow revelers, offering up her bosom to any street person to do lines off of. A party that tight will cost you a pretty penny, and she’d do anything to fund it!”
It took only this to convince me of troubled Deborah’s guilt. I stared, gaping and aghast, at this revelation, but only allowed myself a moment of stupefaction before I took action.
“Sir, we must go directly to the world famous detective, Osgood Sigerson, with your account. He is the only man in the world who will be able to catch this depraved mastermind… or should I say, mistressmind?”
“Touche! Let’s go.”
I, Prunella D’ouchebag, had thus been sucked into the vortexual mystery of the magical missing sword, and squealed off toward the mystery solving hub of the city, and in towards my future as detectress, in the buggy of, and within the arms, of one extremely handsome Coffee Addict.
An Entirely Accurate Eye-Witness Account,
By Prunella D'ouchebag
Any individual, sufficiently ill-fated to be strolling down Ezra avenue on the balmy afternoon of April 19th, 2004, would find themselves chilled to the bone - shaken, stirred - by a blood-curdling scream, coming from the county’s most notorious frat house, most commonly known as the Brew Barn.
One might very naturally assume - the barn being home to football yobs and co-ed hooligans - that the “brew” in question is in reference to the type of brew consisting of hops and barley, or, at least - mortared cat tranquilizers and Atavan - but no. This is not your typical fraternity. This brotherhood is based solely upon a shared passion for the coffee bean and the many products it yields us. The quarters of the Brew Barn, from the rumpus room to the commode, are dedicated to the celebration of all coffee based beverages. Cappuccino, decaf, espresso, filtered, Greek, instant, Frappe, kahuna, Turkish, and most famously - cups and cups of good old-fashioned “joe” - fill the collective surface area and digestive systems of the dwelling.
As stated formerly, a horror-stricken howl emanated from the brew barn on this ominous spring afternoon. I know this, because I happen to be the individual who was sufficiently ill fated to be strolling past the barn at the particular moment the cry was expelled.
Next thing I knew, before my lovely blue, mournful eyes, a young man with exquisite cheekbones and a faux hawk advanced recklessly from the front door of the brew barn, in a visible state of panic. He wore only a Scottish kilt, and was as wired as a rat-fink from his severe coffee-addiction. What he screamed presently is not to be related in polite company, but let it be known that it was of a most foul and ill-bred manner.
His wild, rolling, blood shot eyes fell upon my personage, and he advanced towards me. I nearly swooned from being thus approached, when he held me by the shoulders and shook me as violently as one would a teething baby.
“DID YOU SEE HER?” he asked me.
“Please sir, unhand me!” I pleaded, “I don’t understand you!”
“TELL ME, you two-karat trollop, DID YOU SEE HER!?!”
I was able to free one white-gloved hand from his confinement, and slapped him smartly across his chiseled brown cheek. He was thus physically set free from his temporary insanity, and was quickly brought to reason and intelligibility by my soothing, feminine manner.
“I’m sure I’m sorry to have frightened you so, miss, I must seem a barbarian to you. But, you see, I have just received a frightful blow!”
Once relieved from his initial frenzy, he was able to impart to me the reason behind his distress and horror: after awakening and ingesting his regular double-shot of espresso, coupled with three cups of coffee and an iced cappuccino from Starbucks, he became sensible to a horrific realization:
“My sword was gone. My beautiful, beautiful sword is gone! MY THREE THOUSAND DOLLAR ORNAMENTAL SWORD IS GONE!”
The knowledge of his misfortune endeared me to him instantly, and his super-model good looks had not passed under my detection unnoticed. I went with him into the parlor of the Brew Barn, where I served him a soothing vanilla-mocha blend, and laid a cool damp cloth on his brow. I discovered that his name was Alex, and he was a fan of football (known as Soccer in the colonies), ratings communities, Leftist politics, and drinking the brown stuff with his ‘mates’.
Here he told me the sad history of his beloved sword: his father had acquired it in the late 1980s when on an expedition to Antigua. Shortly after his return home his father had fallen ill with brain fever. As Alex sat sorrowfully by his father’s deathbed, he was given the sword and instructed to guard it with his life. It was the last keepsake he had of his beloved father, as he had been forced to use the entire family inheritance and the street price of their heirlooms to support his habit, and to cater coffee tasting parties at the barn. He displayed the sword in a place close to his heart - in a velvet case behind his computer monitor, so that it would be present in all his webcam photos, and easily accessible if he needed to sell it on the black market for more bean. He then informed me of the most sinister aspect of the tale - he perfectly knew who had taken his sword.
“It was a young lady, with whom I used to have an alliance, named Deborah, but known on the street as Deb-deb. Our connection ended in a sad state of affairs when I realized she was a lunatic, and what’s worse, a user of illegal street drugs! We parted on no friendly terms, and since then I have repeatedly received late night phone calls from her, begging that I give her money.
“As is clear to any imbecile, I am in dire financial straits and cannot be expected to hand out my hard-earned cash just so she can cook up her breakfast in a table-spoon, right?”
I could not argue with this. He continued,
“I told her this quite clearly, and hoped it would mean the end of my lowly connection, but that was too sweet a wish to come true for my star-crossed self.”
He went on to say that, two nights ago, in the wee hours of the night, Deb-deb had shown up at the Brew Barn, wildly intoxicated and raving, her messy black hair dancing before her eyes, flashing supple breasts and taut abdomen. Her pouting lips cursed him barbarously, and then she begged him for a couple of bucks so that she could continue her now month-long coke binge, so that she wouldn’t have to face reality, midterms, or her seriously concerned mother.
“I gave her a dollar twenty five so that she would have bus fair to the detox center and asked her to leave my house at once.
“She glared at me with watery eyes, and cried ‘This is because you think I’m fat, isn’t it? You college guys are all the same! You fatten us up on café lattes galore, and then you throw us away when our stomachs distend! Maybe I’ll just go make myself throw up! You’d like that, wouldn’t you? Listen, you fiend, you better cough up some cash pronto or I’ll report you to the on-campus Women’s Center for treating me like a common street whore! Don’t think they won’t believe me just... because... I’m…’ she trailed off from what she was saying as her eyes beheld my sword hanging in the drawing room. I asked her to leave again, but she just replied with ‘hey buddy, that’s a pretty sweet sword you’ve got there. I bet that sucker’s worth a fortune on the black market, eh?’ Naturally I’m very proud of my dear fathers sword, and couldn’t stop from telling her that, yes, it would be worth at least three thousand dollars to any fine arms dealer or martial arts artifact collector. A smile of satisfaction crossed her face, and she was at once fully prepared to leave, which she did presently. I was bewildered, but hoped against hope that she would now stay away, until this morning my worst fears were realized when I woke up to find my precious sword missing! By this time it’s indubitably in the evil clutches of some pawnshop huckster with a soul patch!” The heightened agitation brought on by his story caused Alex to collapse into tears, and I was given to speculation over what he had told me.
After a moment’s contemplation, I gave voice to my thoughts, “Dear Alex, the actions and utterances of the mentally ill and drug dependent must not be taken seriously. Why, she probably remembered that she had to get back to finger-painting the walls of the local strip-mall with her feces. I see no evidence to absolutely condemn the poor madwoman as yet!”
“Don’t you see, woman?! Today is April 19th! That means that tomorrow is April 20th - otherwise known as “FOUR-TWENTY DAY” amongst the criminal class! Four twenty day is Debdeb’s idea of Christmas! All the local losers, boozers and two-time users come crawling out of their musty caves at this time of year. Debdeb always indulges in the wildest of drug and crime sprees on this day when she can validate her habit in the company of the swarms of fellow revelers, offering up her bosom to any street person to do lines off of. A party that tight will cost you a pretty penny, and she’d do anything to fund it!”
It took only this to convince me of troubled Deborah’s guilt. I stared, gaping and aghast, at this revelation, but only allowed myself a moment of stupefaction before I took action.
“Sir, we must go directly to the world famous detective, Osgood Sigerson, with your account. He is the only man in the world who will be able to catch this depraved mastermind… or should I say, mistressmind?”
“Touche! Let’s go.”
I, Prunella D’ouchebag, had thus been sucked into the vortexual mystery of the magical missing sword, and squealed off toward the mystery solving hub of the city, and in towards my future as detectress, in the buggy of, and within the arms, of one extremely handsome Coffee Addict.