Caffè Dranghiato

[Taken from Encyclopædia Sersbyensis, pp.72-73:

Seamus Godfrey Theruntunderwick "Shagbear" Thunderknave (ca. 1598 - 4 November 1663) was a Sersby-born playwright known for his massive production, having allegedly produced more than 16,000 poems, 301 plays and 254 of something that today would have been classified as either short stories or novellas, depending on the amount of words in each given story. An unusually eloquent person for his time, he was well-known already during the years he was alive. He frequently entertained at local venues, including, but not limited to, pubs, fairs, political gatherings, Sersbyan circumcissions (you don't even wanna know!) and other local gatherings. In late April of 1635 he even entertained at the opening of a madhouse in South Sersby. The warden, a mister Courtaine, praised Thunderknave's performance as 'eccentric brilliance executed thusly'. Thunderknave was a genius in his own lifetime, and he knew it very well.

On 24 May 1624 he married 17-year-old Jeanette, the daughter of a wealthy wool manufacturer from Central Battersby. In their 39 years of marriage they would give birth to and raise fourteen children. Very unusual for the time, all fourteen children would marry and have children on their own. In the 17th century, only 12 % of the children lived long enough to reproduce, although there was sometimes the odd incident of people reproducing after they died. While Thunderknave laughed himself to death in his own outhouse in 1663, his many children and countless grandchildren carried the family name on.

Now the Thunderknave family, or Thundrave as they call themselves, are a family that flourishes. The members of the family are handsome-looking. The women tend to be very beautiful. And they all live prosperously from the royalties from the continued publishing of volumes of their forefather's impressive canon. The Thundrave family remains the only family in the Sersby-Battersby region with enough historical entitlement to allow any male of that family to stand up in the middle of the street and say: "I am of the Thunderknave breed! Come and let me f**k you!" That method worked as recently as 17 August 1997, when 17-year-old Penelope Plaideseley surrendered to 22-year-old James Thundrave's otherwordly charm. They ended up having five children. Four of them have Down Syndrome. The fifth has a foot on his head. In 2005 an extensive genetic testing revealed that the Thundrave family has the highest occurrences of genetic disorders in the developed world.]

***

Amalie entered the teacher's lounge. The bad weather followed her in, making sure her blond hair was a chaotic mess and that her glasses were covered in drops of rain. Looking like a drowned cat, she met the gazes of Felwick, Drange and Gino, who were sitting peacefully in the lounge drinking coffee. Tuesday morning. Tuesday was a phobia-free day when it came to Drange, in striking contrast to the infamous Monday and the nefarious Wednesday. At least today he appeared normal.

"Good morning, Amalie," Felwick said.

"Buongiorno, Amalietta!" Gino exclaimed vibrantly.

"Morning," Drange said, letting out a sour coffee burp.

"Good morning, everyone," Amalie said, before clumsily wiping her glasses clean. She served herself with coffee and put Coffee Mate into it. She took a sip. It tasted awful! With a face contorted in disgust she sat down.

"The coffee isn't good today," Felwick said. - "Anny made it."

"Hah! Thanks for the compliment!" Drange said with a raised chin.

"It's too strong," Amalie said.

"Yeah, I bet that if we put a spoon into the cup, it will float," Felwick said dryly.

"Nobody's forcing you to drink it, Balder," Drange said, insulted. - "If you're dissatisfied with my coffee, you're free to make it yourself next time."

"There is such a thing as moderation," Felwick replied. - "You're killing the coffee. It's so strong that it burns a hole in my stomach! It's so strong that it could burn a hole through the hood of my car!"

"Okay, I get it!" Drange exclaimed, piss-sour. - "Ananias Drange can't make coffee and Ananias Drange can't teach! I might as well sit here playing Tetris on my cell phone since I can't do anything!"

Right then the clock struck nine. Time to educate.

"Well, time to go and teach, signore Dranghè," Gino said and got up. Felwick and Amalie got up too. Drange just sat there pouting. The other three looked at him curiously, Gino included. - "Signore? Are you coming? It's nine o'clock."

"I'm not coming," Drange said, pouting like a little child. - "I'm gonna sit here, drink my wonderful coffee and play Tetris on my cell phone."

"What?" Gino asked in disbelief.

"You heard me. I'm not going anywhere."

"Aw, come on, Anny!" Felwick exclaimed. - "Don't be ridiculous! You and Gino have a class to teach! At least try to act like an adult!"

Drange turned away from them, his face twisted in a childish frown. Gino turned to Felwick and Amalie and shrugged.

"We don't have time for this," Felwick said. He padded Gino on his shoulder. - "Sorry, Gino, you're on your own. Amalie and I have a class to teach as well."

"It's okay, I manage," Gino said. Felwick and Amalie left. Gino turned to the pouting old man with a pleading smile. - "Hey... Signore Felvico was only joking. He didn't mean what he said about your coffee. Your coffee, il caffè dranghiato, is the best on the entire Isola di Blanso!"

Drange turned around curiously.

"You think so?" he asked.

"Si!" Gino exclaimed. - "I really do! It's delicious!" He theatrically kissed his finger tips.

"Why don't you have a cup then?"

Gino gulped. Drange looked at him with a triumphant grin. Very reluctantly the poor Italian poured himself a cup and drank. Without making too many grimaces he managed to swallow it. It mixed with his stomach acids and made quite a witch's brew down there.

"Let's go now, Dranghè," Gino pleaded, letting out a sour coffee burp. Drange finished his cup of coffee and got up. Gino walked with energetic strides out of the lounge while Drange shuffled slouchingly along, several meters behind him.

In the classroom the usual motley crew of questionable offspring was present. Robert Rawhide of the Rawhide clan of cave dwellers. Adam Grimcrack of the Grimcrack tribe of dysfunctional half-wits. Desdemona Halfdonkey of the Halfdonkey gene pool of disastrous degeneration. Therese Sleazewick of the Sleazewick conglomerate of genetic accidents. And Arvid Grimsby, the rotund pupil with the uncanny ability to eat in his sleep. They were all there. Gino and Drange entered the room.

"Good morning, y'all," Drange said with his gruff, grating voice, before letting out a coffee burp so sour that the entire room could smell it. He held to his rumbling stomach, on the verge of throwing up. Maybe the coffee had been just a tad too strong. But only a tad. Gino sat down on the assistant teacher's lay chair in the corner. - "On this beautiful Tuesday morning..." He cast a look at the awful weather outside and burst out in a short bout of sardonic laughter. - "...what could be better than enjoying a poem by our certain favorite 17th century poet?"

"Our favorite?" Desdemona Halfdonkey asked sarcastically.

"Oh f**k, not Shagbear Thunderknave again!" Adam Grimcrack exclaimed.

"Language, young man!" Drange lectured, before nearly throwing up from a long, extremely sour coffee burp. He held to his stomach. - "F*****g Hell..." He cleared his throat, before opening the thick book of Thunderknave's verbal insanities:

Apocalypse!, or Something Like That
Belfast won't last much longer
Climb fast, dumb lass, be stronger
England, strange land, never been there
So bland, can't stand it-- Look!, a bear!

The pupils scratched their heads, before letting out validating nods and 'hm!'s. This was absolutely one of Thunderknave's better poems. Drange flipped the pages and, to their horror, started reading another poem:

Henrietta and the Letter
Henrietta! Your skin! I write you a letter
So thin! The paper is better
Carves deep, I have to weep
The name, I won't forget her

"Did he use her skin as a letter?" Adam asked in wonder.

"This is torture..." Desdemona muttered, rolling her eyes. Drange continued:

A bird! One word! I love you!
Disturb, be heard! I shove you
Off a cliff, salt water whiff!
A spark? No, naught! Thus I've bought
A new bird to play with

Henrietta! Oh, Henrietta! Letter!
Waiting to be written, by love I am smitten
Your face in a daze in my bed
My genitals bitten

The pupils sat there with their mouths agape, horrified and revolted by the highly disturbing content of the poem.

"This has gotta be the worst crap I've ever heard!" Therese Sleazewick exclaimed. - "I can write better than that!"

Drange stopped reading, closing the book with a loud bang. He looked at her with fiery eyes, annoyed by the outraging insolence coming from the young, blue-eyed girl with the blond, curly hair. Then a smirk.

"Okay," he said. Therese looked at him confused. - "I accept your challenge. In fact, I want you all to write a poem." A collective groan went through the room. - "You will all write a poem containing at least four verses. Today it's Tuesday. I want it in my hands on Friday. That gives you three days to try and write something better than Thunderknave's seminal poem about Henrietta and the letter."

"Way to go, Sleazef**k!" Robert Rawhide hissed. Therese sent him a narrow-eyed glare that could kill. - "You've just sent us all on a one-way ticket to Hell!"

"Now, now, erm... you," Drange said from the blackboard. Of course Robert's name escaped him. - "Writing is good exercise for the brain. It improves your memory and cognitive functioning and makes it easier to..." A halt. He rubbed his cheek. - "Hmm, what was I talking about...?" He stood there half entranced for a little while. - "Oh, it doesn't matter. Since it's such a beautiful day today..." He burst out in a bout of sardonic laughter. - "...what could be better than enjoying a poem by our certain favorite 17th century poet?"

"Are you f*****g demented?!" Desdemona cried. Drange looked at her with a glare of surprised offense. - "You just read two s****y, disgusting poems! The worst heap of crap I've ever heard by far!" The girl was in falsetto, her shrill voice ringing in the walls. - "And now you're gonna read two more?! Are you trying to kill us?!"

"That's it, young lady!" Drange thundered, pointing at the door. - "Go to the principal's office at once!"

"Fine," Desdemona said quietly, getting up. She could not conceal how happy she was now that she no longer had to sit there listening to the worst poet in the history of poetry.

"Now, where was I...?" Drange muttered. He then looked at the massive book in his hands. - "Ah! Poems!" He let out yet another sour coffee burp. A little bit of sour saliva accidentally dripped out of the corners of his mouth and landed on the book. Several of the girls let out disgusted groans. Drange wiped the spit off the book with the sleeve of his shirt, before he opened the book and cleared his throat:

Flirting With a Curtain
I'm flirting with a curtain, a veilèd madam
Watching the current that no man can fathom
I'm flirting with a man, I think he's Saddam
The curtain is gone, I'm flirting with myself

I'm flirting with a curtain, I call it Adam
Watching the torrent, the Armageddon
I'm flirting with Stan, I'm flirting with Dan
It's certain I'm gone, I'm not hurting myself

"There are 250 more verses," Drange said. The pupils' faces aged at least ten years. Drange held to his stomach, before discretely bending over to the waste paper basket. A thin string of stomach acid slid out of his mouth and splashed into the empty bucket. A couple of the girls gagged when the awful stench of acid and caffè dranghiato hit their noses. Drange wiped his mouth and continued reciting those travesties of poetry.

***

Lunch. The eating of food. The drinking of decent, non-Drangonian coffee. To be frank, the old man's coffee was the stuff of nightmares, not to mention a prominent cause of heartburn, acid reflux and even stomach ulcers. Amalie winced. She sat in the teacher's lounge, way too much inside her own head to follow the conversations between the other teachers. They all had their act together. Even Drange. He might be a reckless boozer and eternal bachelor, but at least he was congruent. Amalie was not. She did not really know who she was. Was she anxious? Was she scared? Messed-up? Frightened of dying? Frightened of growing older? Yes! What else was she? Was she caring? Who knows. She had never cared for anybody but herself. Was she capable of loving? Who knows. She had never had anyone to love. Was she worthy of love? God, she hoped so!

The food was tough to swallow. Too much fiber in the bread. Too little butter. Too much peanut butter. It took half a cup of coffee just to swallow one mouthful of that chunky stuff; she might as well eat saw dust. Tomorrow was going to be spent on the toilet, attempting to take a dump. The dump was going to clog the toilet and make the janitor work for his money. The janitor was going to scowl at her the next day. The plumber too. The cleaning lady would probably paint murder threats on the windshield of her blue little car. Amalie held to her chest. Heartburn. Damn that stupid coffee she drank this morning! It still wreaked havoc on her system. She let out a sour coffee burp that not even the new, superior coffee and the peanut butter sandwich could mask.

She led a slightly shivering hand through her hair.

"What's your opinion, Amalie?" Harald suddenly asked. Amalie looked like a deer in headlights.

"What?" she muttered confused. - "Excuse me, what?"

"What's your opinion on the upcoming test this Friday?" Harald asked. Amalie had no idea what he was talking about.

"Ummm... What test?" she asked.

A gasp went through the lounge. Harald let out a deep, troubled sigh.

"The PISA test!" he said. - "We've been talking about it for weeks! The Program for International Student Assessment! An international study done every three years to test 15-year-olds in math, science and reading!"

"I know what PISA is, Harald," Amalie said. - "Isn't Blansey a little bit late? The last PISA test was conducted in 2012."

"Blansey is always late," Harald said. - "Remember that we didn't get Internet before 2009."

Amalie looked at him stumped.

"How's that even possible?" she asked.

"On Blansey anything's possible," Harald said sternly, before looking at the clock on the wall. He wiped the sweat off his forehead. - "Well, I must go. I have something I need to do. What it is, I don't know. With whom I'm gonna do it, I don't know. Why I need to do it, I don't know either." He got up, before suddenly sending Amalie an angry glare. She flinched. Then he left the lounge.

Amalie took another bite of the very tough sandwich. Her bowels prepared for an exercise worthy of a world-class fitness champion. Felwick, Gino and Drange sent her odd looks. She ignored them. How could she miss the fact that there was going to be a PISA test on Blansey? She had had other things on her mind lately, to say the least. She poured herself another cup of coffee and put Coffee Mate into it. Letting out a sour, ghastly coffee/peanut butter burp, she finished her sandwich. It lay like a brick in her stomach.

A disturbing question popped up in her mind. What had she been doing in the three hours between Drange's coffee making incident and now? That was nearly three hours. She did not remember being in class. She did not remember coming back to the lounge for lunch. What had she been up to in those three hours? Cold sweat. Racing heart. Her mouth slightly opened. She led a cold, clammy, shivering hand through her hair. Freaked was only the tip of her mental iceberg.

"Well?" Harald's voice sounded all of a sudden. Amalie yet again looked like a deer in headlights. She had zoned out again.

"Huh?" she asked in a whimper. Everybody looked at her curiously. This time Harald let out a groan.

"Could you pass me the coffee jug, please?" he asked.

"Didn't... didn't you just leave?" she asked confused.

"Yes, and now I'm back," he said vexed. - "The coffee? Please?" A brusque, impatient voice.

"Yes, of course!" Amalie said, still in a whimper. - "Sorry!" With hands that virtually trembled she handed over the jug. - "I'm a little bit distracted today." A short, nervous laugh.

"M-hm," Harald said, pouring coffee into his cup. He was not even looking at her, his face sombre. She felt like a clod - or, in her case, a clodette. - "By the way, since you don't have any more classes today, do you want to have that meeting with me now?"

For the third time Amalie got the thunderstruck deer in headlights look on her face.

"E-excuse me?" she whimpered. Everybody looked at her, this time they all looked worried. Harald put down the coffee jug and his cup with a loud thud, and sent her a crossed look.

"You..." he started, before taking a deep breath. - "...you came to me during first recess. You entered my office without knocking on the door. I thought somebody had died. You insisted that you needed to talk to me." He put his elbows on his knees, leaning towards her on his chair. - "Are you trying to tell me that you don't remember?!"

Gino, Felwick and Drange got awkward looks on their faces, their eyes darting back and forth. Amalie became even paler than she already was. She shrank in the couch.

"I... I'm sorry, I..." Amalie muttered, looking with pleading eyes at her enraged boss. - "Did I... What?"

"Get up," he said briskly. He got up so fast that his chair tipped over and landed with a bang on the worn-out floor. The three other men in the room flinched. Amalie's eyes widened, she nearly sought refuge under the table. - "Get up, Amalie. We're gonna have a talk in my office. Now!"

Reduced to a mortified wreck, Amalie got up and followed the angry, hard-sweating former weightlifter out of the lounge. If only she knew what the Hell was going on! If only she had an answer! One thing was accidentally zoning out of a boring conversation. Another thing was not remembering three hours, including her barging into his office in a frenzy. Blacking out like that without the use of drugs or alcohol. When she entered Harald's office and he closed the door behind them, she felt like she was entering a gas chamber to meet her untimely death.

"Sit down," he said. Amalie fell down on a chair. Harald sat down behind his desk. - "Okay, Amalie. What's going on?" Amalie was on the verge of crying. He slammed his hand on the desk, making her let out a wail. - "I asked you a question! What's going on?"

"I... I don't know," she whimpered. - "I just don't know. I guess... I guess I'm not myself today."

"You wanna tell me why you storm into my office and virtually scream at me that you need to talk to me, and then mysteriously forget all about it not two hours later? Don't you think that kind of behavior is a bit weird?"

"I'm sorry, I... I have a lot of personal--"

"Completely irrelevant. Leave your personal issues at home. Do your job. That's what you're paid for."

A whimper. A leading of a shivering hand through hair. Confusion and embarrassment over having met this complete lack of empathy when trying to tell him what was really bothering her. Helena. Denise. Her fear of being alone, her fear of getting older. Her fear of dying alone.

"Okay," she said quietly, her eyes watering.

"Amalie, I'm gonna ask you one simple question," Harald said, leaning over the desk, resting his elbows on it. - "And I want you to answer it as honestly as you can." Amalie was all ears. - "Are you on drugs?"

It was like somebody slapped her in the face. The deer in headlights came back. The question caught her not only off guard: It caught her drinking in the tavern several hundred meters away from the gates of the medieval castle that she was supposed to guard.

"Are you on drugs, Amalie?" Harald asked yet again.

"No!" she cried. - "I'm not on drugs!"

"Are you willing to take a urine sample at the school nurse's office right now?" he asked.

"Yes!" she said with determination.

"Good. Then go and do it. And when you're done, take the rest of the day off." Amalie got a stumped look on her face. - "In fact, just stay home until I tell you otherwise." He literally waved her off like she was some bug. With a hurt look on her face she left the office.

Next stop: The school nurse's office.

***

Imagine being the last person alive on Earth. The only human being left. Nobody to interact with. Nobody to hold. Nobody to touch. Imagine wander through a dead world, never to be held again, never to be touched, never to be kissed, never to be loved. Ever again. The entire world was one huge deserted island. Shipwrecked on Planet Earth. The only other life consists of life forms way simpler, lacking the superior complexity of the human mind. For all Mother Nature cares, you are an alien, or at the very best, the last individual of a species that once ruled Earth. Now... Nothing.

Alone. What everybody feared the most. A dreaded state for most normal people. So feared and dreaded that most people would do anything to avoid ending up alone. Going down the road of all the stupid things people have done to avoid being alone, would be taking a swan's dive into the deep shithole of TryingToFitInLand. Being alone was something one did not wish upon one's direst enemy - at least not in an ideal world; of course, many people wished that exact fate just not upon their direst enemy, but on everyone who failed to defer to them in the moment. It was as if the human mind was specifically designed to hate and to envy. No wonder some people did end up alone.

got any plans for tomorrow? your shampoo bottles are still in my shower... ;)

Sebastian Penetrate. The brand's name teased her. Even slightly annoyed her. Amalie had sent that text message to Helena while she was on the ferry from Blansey to Sersby. That was three and a half hours ago. Now it was four in the afternoon. She was sitting in her red, comfy couch, having just finished a microwave meat pie and a cup of herbal tea. Helena had still not replied.

So damn alone. So bored. So... hurt. Her black-out earlier today really freaked her out. Harald's lack of compassion hurt her. Loneliness. It was eating away at her. She browsed through the very few contacts on her cell phone. A 24-year-old woman pushing 25. So few contacts. It was pathetic. She was pathetic. She felt pathetic. Should she text Denise? Would Denise come over to her tonight if she texted her now? Would that be needy? Clingy? Pathetic?

A whimper. She realized it came from herself. Leading a shivering hand through her hair, she got out of the couch, restless and agitated. She was with Denise yesterday. Denise held her. Comforted her. ASMR-ed her. What more could she ask for? Denise had done her duties as a best friend, and way beyond too. If she really respected Denise, she should give her at least a day off. Amalie was no child. She could take care of herself.

The flat was way too big and silent. A groan. She realized it came from herself. She took off her dark-gray sweater and red denims, before entering the bathroom. Soon she was dressed in lycra from head to toe, including a thick training jacket to keep warm in the cold temperatures. Now Amalie the recovering child was going for a jog! Yeah! Today she was Jogging Girl! She even left her cell phone in the flat. The keys to the house she put inside the zipper pocket of her training jacket.

The bored blonde hit the road. It did not take long before she entered a beautiful gravel path in the forest. Surrounded by evergreen trees and the odd canine crap lump she jogged energetically. The gravel path went all the way over to Ligut Heights more than ten kilometers away, but Amalie did not intend to jog all the way over there. Then she would have to jog back again as well. No half-marathon today; she was not that restless.

Thoughts. Millions of them. Her mind was not allowed to rest. No room for neither serenity nor tranquility. The Amy pond was always stirred by unpleasant elements from the past. From her troubled past of guilt and self-loathing. Her raging desire. Her unquenchable thirst for external validation, the approval of others. Stuck in the past. Living in the past. Reliving every unpleasant event that ever happened in her life. While her current life was slowly slipping away. She was going to be 25 in April. She did not want to be 25!

Amalie stopped in the middle of the gravel road. Her entire body tightened as she raised her head. Her mouth opened wide. A horrifying scream that normally only came from deeply tormented individuals. A murder of crows fled a nearby treetop. Every critter in the area ran as fast as their small, scratching feet could carry them. The scream barely sounded human. It had this ill, harrowing shrillness of despair, desperation and unarticulated anxiety. Angst. Weltschmertz - the pain of the world. A soul in such level of agony that it was barely a soul at all. There was a hurricane in the Amy pond, and its residents were in grave danger.

Another spine-chilling scream. A lot weaker than the first. Her throat hurt. Her stomach hurt. Her chest hurt. Her entire body hurt from the exhausting primal scream performance. It was a freak show. An utter freak show! Could someone please put her out of her misery? If an animal had acted like that, it would have been put down on the spot. Humans had an eerie double-standard when it came to suffering. The suffering of an animal had to be ended as soon as humanly possible, whereas the suffering of a human had to go on as long as inhumanely possible. Was being a human even humane? Amalie begged to differ.

Feeling drained, she turned around and walked back from whence she came. What she thought was going to be a pleasant jogging trip had, as most of the events of her life, been ruined by her troubled mind that was stuck in the past. She was deeply troubled with deep-rooted issues. That had been confirmed by Harald, her boss, and Denise, her dearest friend. Those who knew her the best were those to whom she appeared the most flawed.

Would she f**k up things with Helena? Why had she not replied to her text message? Why did she tease her with the mysterious text message sorry wrong number. It was weird. She had not even bothered getting the punctuation right. Where was the comma between sorry and wrong? It sounded so hastily written. Like she just finished it in a hurry in order to spend as little time as possible on it. Like it was a troublesome burden.

Being alone like this was not good for her. She realized that her personality was too frail to handle such long bouts of lonesomeness. She was a human being who craved social contact. Every normal human being craved it, so why the Hell was it so hard to obtain? If everybody wanted it, why did not everybody get it? She would have screamed again if it were not for the fact that her throat felt like it had been torn asunder.

The flat was just as empty and silent when she came home. Now she was weary and hungry as well. There were three bananas lying in a wooden bowl on the kitchen counter. They looked like they were going to crawl away from there any moment. She cringed. Fruit tended to just sit about in her flat. With a grimace on her face she picked them up and tossed them in the litter bin in the cupboard under the sink. After having guzzled a liter of water she entered the bathroom, got undressed and stepped into the spacy shower cabinet.

"Ow..." she let out as the hot water tinkled across the still healing claw marks on her milk-white back.