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In reply to: Cofficionados Bandits (vs Lucid Dreamers)
The hat was gone.
Kit stood blinking in the sun, the shape of his new self cooling around the edges like a half-written cookie losing form. Without the cowboy hat, the lasso made less sense. His accent wobbled, then vanished completely. The sunglasses stayed, but now just made everything too dark, even tinted pink.
Behind him, the gazebo creaked again. But no trapdoor this time—only a faint whirring, like a film projector syncing spools.
“It’s reloading,” said Thiram from the sidelines, tapping at something that looked oddly like a pressure-gauged Sabulmantium. “Every time someone hands off a narrative object—like a synch, a hat, a horse even—it updates roles. We’re being cast on the fly.”
Chico looked up from Tyrone, who had snatched one of the Memory Pies and was now attempting to hide the evidence behind a flowerpot. “So… Kit’s not Trevor anymore?”“No,” said Carob, arms crossed. “He’s Trevorless. That identity didn’t bake fully. We have to stabilize it.”
“But with what?” asked Godrick, who had returned carrying a second cocktail, coffee with a glass of water and a slight wry smirk.
Amy, now balancing the cowboy hat on her head as she crouched next to the still-disoriented Padre, called out without turning:
“Bring him another Synch. That’s how it works now, apparently. Hat or otherwise.”
In reply to: Cofficionados Bandits (vs Lucid Dreamers)
The wind picked up just as Thiram adjusted the gazebo’s solar kettle. At first, he blamed the rising draft on Carob’s sighing—but quickly figured out that this one had… velocity.
Then the scent came floating by: jasmine, hair spray, and over-steeped calamansi tea.
A gust of hot air blew through the plantation clearing, swirling snack wrappers and curling Amy’s page corners. From the vortex stepped a woman, sequins ablaze, eyeliner undefeated.
She wore a velvet shawl patterned like a satellite weather map.
“Did someone say Auringa?” she cooed, gliding forward as her three crystal balls rotated lazily around her hips like obedient moons.
“Madam Auringa?” Kit asked, wide-eyed.Thiram’s devices were starting to bip, checking for facts. “Madam Auringa claims to have been born during a literal typhoon in the Visayas, with a twin sister who “vanished into the eye.” She’s been forecasting mischief, breakups, and supernatural infestations ever since…”
Carob raised an eyebrow. “Source?”
Humphrey harrumphed: “We don’t usually invite atmospheric phenomena!”
“Doctor Madam Auringa, Psychic Climatologist and Typhoon Romantic,” the woman corrected, removing a laminated badge from her ample bosom. “Bachelor of Arts in Forecasted Love and Atmospheric Vibes. I am both the typhoon… and its early warning system.”
“Is she… floating?” Amy whispered.
“No,” said Chico solemnly, “She’s just wearing platform sandals on a bed of mulch.”
Auringa snapped her fingers. A steamy demitasse of kopi luwak materialized midair and plopped neatly into her hand. It wasn’t for drink, although the expensive brevage born of civet feces had an irrepressible appeal —it was for her only to be peered into.
“This coffee is trembling,” she murmured. “It fears a betrayal. A rendezvous gone sideways. A gazebo… compromised.”
Carob reached for her notes. “I knew the gazebo had a hidden floor hatch.”
Madam Auringa raised one bejeweled finger. “But I have come with warning and invitation. The skies have spoken: the Typhoon Auring approaches. And it brings… revelations. Some shall find passion. Others—ant infestations.”
“Did she just say passion or fashion?” Thiram mumbled.
“Both,” Madam Auringa confirmed, winking at him with terrifying precision.
She added ominously “May asim pa ako!”. Thiram’s looked at his translator with doubt : “You… still have a sour taste?”
She tittered, “don’t be silly”. “It means ‘I’ve still got zest’…” her sultry glance disturbing even the ants.
In reply to: Cofficionados Bandits (vs Lucid Dreamers)
Another one! A random distant memory wafted into Amy’s mind. Uncle Jack always used to say GATZ e bo. Amy could picture his smile when he said it, and how his wife always smiled back at him and chuckled. Amy wondered if she’d even known the story behind that or if it had always been a private joke between them.
“What’s been going on with my gazebo?” Amy’s father rushed into the scene. So that’s what he looks like. Amy couldn’t take her eyes off him, until Carob elbowed her in the neck.
“Sorry, I meant to elbow you in the ribs, but I’m so tall,” Carob said pointlessly, in an attempt to stop Amy staring at her father as if she’d never seen him before.
Thiram started to explain the situation with the gazebo to Amy’s father, after first introducing him to Kit, the new arrival. “Humphrey, meet Kit, our new LBGYEQCXOJMFKHHVZ story character. Kit, this is Amy’s father who we sometimes refer to as The Padre.”
“Pleased to meet you, ” Kit said politely, quaking a little at the stern glare from the old man. What on earth is he wearing? A tweed suit and a deerstalker, in this heat! How do I know that’s what they’re called? Kit wondered, quaking a little more at the strangeness of it all.
“Never mind all that now!” Humphrey interrupted Thiram’s explanation.
Still as rude as ever! Amy thought.
“I’ve too much to think about, but I’ll tell you this: I’ve planned a character building meeting in the gazebo, and you are all invited. As a matter of fact,” Humphrey continued, “You are all obliged to attend. If you choose not to ~ well, you know what happened last time!”
“What happened last time?” asked Carob, leaning forward in anticipation of an elucidating response, but Humphrey merely glared at her.
Amy sniggered, and Humphrey shot her a lopsided smile. “YOU know what happened in Jack’s GATZ e bo, don’t you, my girl?”
Where were those random memories when you wanted them? Amy had no idea what he was talking about.
“Who else is invited, Humph? asked Chico, resisting the urge to spit.
“My good man,” Humphrey said with a withering look. “Sir Humphrey’s the name to you.”
Sir? what’s he on about now? wondered Amy. Does that make me a Lady?
“Who else is invited, Padre?” Amy echoed.
Humphrey pulled a scroll tied with a purple ribbon out of his waistcoat pocket and unfurled it. Clearing his throat importantly, he read the list to all assembled.
Juan and Dolores Valdez.
Godric, the Swedish barman
Malathion and Glyphosate, Thiram’s triplet brothers. Mal and Glyph for short.
Liz Tattler
Miss Bossy Pants
Goat Horned Draugaskald“Did I forget anyone?” Humphrey asked, peering over his spectacles as he looked at each of the characters. “You lot,” he said, “Amy, Carob, Thiram, Chico, Kit and Ricardo: you will be expected to play hosts, so you might want to start thinking about refreshments. And not,” he said with a strong authoritarian air, “Not just coffee! A good range of beverages. And snacks.”
Thiram, leaning against a tree, started whistling the theme tune to Gone With The Wind. Tossing an irritated glance in his direction, Carob roughly gathered up her mass of frizzy curls and tethered it all in a tight pony tail. I still don’t know what happened before, she fumed silently. The latest developments where making her nervous. Would they find out her secret?
“You guys,” called Chico, who had wandered over to the gazebo. “It’s full of ants.”
In reply to: Cofficionados Bandits (vs Lucid Dreamers)
Carob was the first to find the flyer. It had been pinned to the banyan tree with a teaspoon, flapping just slightly in the wind like it knew how ridiculous it was.
FIVE HURT IN GAZEBO DRAMA
Local Brewmaster Suspected. Coffee Stains Incriminating.She tapped it twice and announced to no one in particular, “I told you gazebos were structurally hostile.”
Amy poked her head out of the linen drying shed. “No, you said they were ‘liminal spaces for domestic deceit.’ That’s not the same as a health hazard.”
“You ever been in a gazebo during a high wind with someone named Derek? Exactly.”
Ricardo ran past them at an awkward crouch, muttering into a device. “…confirming perimeter breach… one is wearing a caftan, possibly hallucinating… I repeat, gazebo situation is active.”
Chico wandered in from the side trail, his shirt unbuttoned, leaf in mouth, mumbling to Kit. “I don’t know what happened. There was a conversation about frothed chalk and cheese, and then everything… rotated.”
Kit looked solemn. “Aunt Amy, he sat on it.”
“He sat on the gazebo?” Amy blinked.
“No. On the incident.”
Kit offered no further explanation.
From the underbrush, a low groan emerged. Thiram’s voice, faint: “Someone built a gazebo over the generator hatch. There are no stairs. I fell in.”
Amy sighed. “Goddammit, Thiram.”
Carob smirked. “Gazebo’d.”
In reply to: Cofficionados Bandits (vs Lucid Dreamers)
One too many cups of coffee and I should know better by now, Amy realised after tossing and turning in her crumpled bed through the strange dark hours of the night, wondering if someone had spiked her wine with cocaine or if she was having a heart attack or a nervous breakdown. They all say to just breathe, she thought, But that is the last thing you should focus on when you’re hyperventilating. You should forget your breathing entirely when you can’t control it. After several hours of imagining herself in the death throes of some dire terminal physical malfunction, she fell asleep, only to be woken up by a strong need to piss like a racehorse. Don’t open your eyes more than you need to, don’t wake up too much, she told herself as she lurched blindly to the privy.
Latte! Fucking Latte! what a stupid word for coffee with milk. Amy hated the word latte, it was so pretentious and stupid. Revolting anyway, putting milk in coffee, made inexpressibly worse by calling the bloody thing JUST MILK in another language. Why not call it Milch or Leche or молоко or γάλα or 牛奶 or sữa or दूध….
Amy flushed the toilet, wide awake and irritated, but never the less grateful for the realisation that her discomfort was nothing more than an ooverdoose of cafoone.
In reply to: Cofficionados Bandits (vs Lucid Dreamers)
Chico drank the cup of freshly ground coffee beans. He winked with distaste and jotted a few words on his notebook before trying a second batch of ground coffee beans.
He wasn’t aware of much from his past life, or if he even had a life before the others summoned him. They were a mystery to him, and he didn’t understand the reasons or the purpose of his existence. He didn’t even like coffee; he only pretended to, because the job and his own physical appearance kind of fit with the stereotype. He chuckled thinking it could be a stereotypo.
He thought the taste of coffee was the reason why he chewed betel leaves. Their taste, slightly spicy and pungent with hints of clove and cinnamon helped mask the bitterness of the coffee he had to drink. He suddenly became aware of some other information about himself. He could swear he had forgotten them, they simply weren’t there before. His father had lost his teeth. The reason wasn’t clear yet, but looming behind the jungle trees. What about his mother? Was she slim or fat? Both possibilities flickered in his head and disappeared. Apparently it hadn’t been chosen yet. He pondered about that last remark before forgetting it.
Too many weird questions were passing through his fat head. The heat and sweat were no good for his mental health… because of all the flies. He wondered if that was the reason why the old lady had started breeding them under her rooftop. She claimed it was an infestation but he had seen her secretly releasing swarms of flies in the evening, exciting the cauldron of bats. She had seen him looking at her, but they had tacitly convened they would not betray each other’s secret. Only, Chico wasn’t yet aware of what his own secret was.
He winced as he tasted the third batch of coffee from the plantation.
In reply to: Cofficionados – What’s Brewing
The Cofficionados Theme Song “Dont Trust a Goat with a Plan”
[Verse]
Goat in a bow tie whispers
“Trust me
My dear”
A plan in its hooves but intentions unclear
Guard the coffee belt like a treasure map’s end
Four bandits are plotting to twist and upend[Chorus]
Don’t trust a goat with a plan
My friend
They’ll sip your dreams while you defend
Lucid nights sabotaged mid-spin
By cofficionados sneaking in[Verse 2]
Carob in shadows
No cocoa in sight
Thiram with whispers that steal your midnight
Amy’s sweet smile hides beans of deceit
Chico grinds chaos
The bitter elite[Bridge]
Sleep-parachute breaches
Reverse dreams collide
They’ve hijacked your pillow for the wildest ride
Beware the saboteurs that seep in deep
Between dripping espresso and REM sleep[Chorus]
Don’t trust a goat with a plan
My friend
They’ll sip your dreams while you defend
Lucid nights sabotaged mid-spin
By cofficionados sneaking in[Verse 3]
Pour your resistance in a steaming haze
Shield the roast aroma from their forking ways
The bandits want dominion over your grind
But you’ll wake alert with their schemes left behindIn reply to: Cofficionados Bandits (vs Lucid Dreamers)
Ricardo splattered the coffee all over Amy, turning a shade of purple in the process.
“What did you put in it? It tastes absolutely revolting!”
Carob tittered. “Just as well. I had my doubts about this new Toktok craze about putting dried shallots and spring onions in lattes. Guess my hunch was on the money.”
Amy wanted to feel incensed, but her brain had stopped at the description of the offending latte “You put what in his latte?! And that coffee’s going to stain my shirt now, I’ll look like a spotted leopard!”
“Funny,” Carob looked down at Amy “that you should pronounce that loo-pard… You sound like a hooligan.”
“Well, better that than an ooligarch.”
“You did it again!”
“Ooh, shut up Caroob.”
In reply to: Cofficionados Bandits (vs Lucid Dreamers)
Ricardo crouched lower behind the bush, peering through the leaves with keen interest. He thumbed out a swift message:
“major drama unfolding. tasseography? coffee cup revelations. over.”
He hit send and melted back into the foliage, waiting nervously for Miss Bossy’s reply and pondering his future.
What chance of advancement was there, really?
Was he doomed to a lifetime of trying to impress her?
Was he a fool?“Ricardo!” shouted Carob. “Would you like me to get you a cup of coffee?”
In reply to: Cofficionados Bandits (vs Lucid Dreamers)
“I don’t know, Amy. I thought it was Chico who was mysterious — subversively spitting at every opportunity.”
“Well, Carob, maybe we could just agree they’re equally mysterious?” suggested Amy, turning her attention back to her search.
Carob shrugged. “A woman in Greece is divorcing her husband because AI read her coffee cup and said he was cheating.”
Amy paused and looked up. “For real?”
“Yeah. I read it on Thiram’s news stream. He left it running on that weird device of his — over there, next to his half-drunk coffee. Not sure where he went, actually.”
Amy gasped and clapped her hands. “Oh! Oh! Brainwave occurring — let’s get AI to read Thiram’s coffee cup!”
Carob snorted. “Genius.”
They raced over to the small folding table where Thiram’s cup sat. Carob held up her phone.
“Okay. One quick pic. Hold it steady!”
They excitedly uploaded the image to an AI analysis app Thiram had installed on his device.
The app whirred for a few minutes:
DEEP COFFEE CUP ANALYSIS COMPLETE
Latent emotional residue: contemplative, fond of secrets.
Foam pattern suggests hidden loyalty to an entity known only as “The Port.”
Swirling suggests alignment with larger forces not currently visible.
Presence of cardamom notes: entirely unaccounted for.
Recommendation: approach carefully with gentle questioning.“Blimey, what does that mean?” asked Carob.
Amy nodded solemnly, perhaps with just a touch of smugness. “He is a man of mystery. Didn’t I say it?”
In reply to: Cofficionados – What’s Brewing
Chico Ray
Chico Ray
Directly Stated Visual and Behavioral Details:
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Introduces himself casually: “Name’s Chico,” with no clear past, suggesting a self-aware or recently-written character.
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Chews betel leaves, staining his teeth red, which gives him a slightly unsettling or feral appearance.
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Spits on the floor, even in a freshly cleaned café—suggesting poor manners, or possibly defiance.
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Appears from behind a trumpet tree, implying he lurks or emerges unpredictably.
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Fabricates plausible-sounding geo-political nonsense (e.g., the coffee restrictions in Rwanda), then second-guesses whether it was fiction or memory.
Inferred Traits:
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A sharp smile made more vivid by betel staining.
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Likely wears earth-toned clothes, possibly tropical—evoking Southeast Asian or Central American flavors.
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Comes off as a blend of rogue mystic and unreliable narrator, leaning toward surreal trickster.
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Psychological ambiguity—he doubts his own origins, possibly a hallucination, dream being, or quantum hitchhiker.
What Remains Unclear:
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Precise age or background.
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His affiliations or loyalties—he doesn’t seem clearly aligned with the Bandits or Lucid Dreamers, but hovers provocatively at the edges.
In reply to: Cofficionados – What’s Brewing
Key Themes and Narrative Elements
Metafiction & Self-Reference: Characters frequently comment on their own construction, roles, and how being written (or observed) defines their reality. Amy especially embodies this.
Lucid Dreaming & Dream Logic: The boundary between reality and dream is porous. Lucid Dreamers are parachuting onto plantations, and Carob dreams in reverse. Lucid Dreamers are adverse to Coffee Plantations as they keep the World awake.
Coffee as Sacred Commodity: The coffee plantation is central to the story’s stakes. It’s under threat from climate (rain), AI malfunctions, and rogue dreamers. This plays comically on global commodity anxiety.
Technology Satire & AI Sentience: Emotional AI, “Silly Intelligence” devices, and exasperation with modern tech hint at mild technophobia or skepticism. All fueled by hot caffeinated piece of news.
Fictionality vs. Reality: Juan and Dolores embody this—grappling with what it means to be real. Dolores vanishes when no one looks—existence contingent on observation.
Rain & Weather as Mood Symbol: The rain is persistent—setting a tone of gentle absurdity and tension, while also providing plot catalyst.
In reply to: Cofficionados – What’s Brewing
Key Characters (with brief descriptions)
Amy Kawanhouse – Self-aware new character with metatextual commentary. Witty, possibly insecure, reflective; has a goat named Fanella and possibly another, Finnley, for emergencies. Often the first to point out logical inconsistencies or existential quirks.
Carob Latte – Tall, dry-humored, and slightly chaotic. Fond of coffee-related wordplay and appears to enjoy needling Amy. Described as having “frizzled” hair and reverse-lucid dreams.
Thiram Izu – The practical one, technologically inclined but confused by dreams. Tends to get frustrated with the group’s lack of coordination. Has a history of tension with Amy, and a tendency to “zone out.”
Chico Ray – Mysterious newcomer. May have appeared out of nowhere. Unclear loyalties. Possibly former friend or frenemy of the group, annoyed by past incidents.
Juan & Dolores Valdez – Fictional coffee icons reluctantly acknowledging their existence within a meta-reality. Dolores isn’t ready to be real, and Juan’s fine with playing the part when needed.
Godric – Swedish barista-channeler. Hints at deeper magical realism; references Draugaskalds (ghost-singers) and senses strange presences.
Ricardo – Appears later. Described in detail by Amy (linen suit, Panama hat), acts as a foil in a discussion about maps and coffee geography. Undercover for a mission with Miss Bossy.
The Padre – Could be a father or a Father. Offstage, but influential. Concerned about rain ruining crops. A source of exposition and concern.
Fanella – Amy’s cream goat, serves as comic relief and visual anchor.
Finnley, the unpredictable goat, is reserved for “life or death situations.”In reply to: Cofficionados Bandits (vs Lucid Dreamers)
Carob didn’t know what to say — which gave her a tendency to ramble.
Was everyone avoiding Amy?
Was it because she was dressed as a stout little lady?
Carob cleared her throat. “Well, Amy, you look… most interesting today.”
“I have to agree,” replied Amy, unperturbed. “Now — what is this about you and Ricardo?”
“I’m sorry, but I can’t tell you,” Carob said, shaking her head. “Partly because it’s top secret, and partly because…”
She tapped her temple and nodded to herself — definitely a few times more than necessary. “I’m still working it out.”“But you know him?” Amy persisted. “How do you know him?”
Carob knew Amy could be relentless.
“Look over there!” she shouted, pointing vaguely.
Amy didn’t even turn her head. She gazed up at Carob with a long-suffering stare. “Carob?”
Carob scrunched up her face. “Okay,” she said eventually. “I think the others are avoiding you. Me. Us. Both of us.”
She took a deep breath. “Thiram doesn’t know where we are or what we’re doing here — and he’s not good with that, bless. We don’t know where on earth Chico is — but we do know he spits, which, quite frankly, is uncouth.”
She brightened suddenly. “But one thing I do know — here, amid the coffee beans and the lucid dreamers, there is a story to be told.”
Amy rolled her eyes. “I’ve noticed you still haven’t told me how you know Ricardo.”
It was rather odd — but neither of them noticed the bush inching closer.
Trailing suspect but nothing to report yet, messaged Ricardo.
He knew Miss Bossy Pants wouldn’t be happy.
In reply to: Cofficionados Bandits (vs Lucid Dreamers)
Amy supposed everyone was blaming her, for what she couldn’t say, but they had clearly been avoiding her. There was plenty of coffee here anyway, even if the rest of the world was suffering. Don’t even think it, she told herself sternly. We don’t want people flocking here in droves once they realise.
So, do I want people or not? she asked herself. One minute I’m wondering where everyone is, and then next minute I’m wanting everyone to stay away.
“You on the spectrum too, are you?” asked Carob, reading her mind. “It’s ok,” she added, seeing the look of alarm cross Amy’s face, “Your secret’s safe with me. I mean about being on the spectrum. But be careful, they’re rounding people like us up and sending them to a correctional facility. We’re quite lucky to be here, out of the way.”
“Have you been avoiding me?” Amy asked, which was more immediately concerning than the concentration camps. “Because I’ve been here all alone for ages, nothing to do but read my book, draw in my sketch pad, and work on my needlepoint cushion covers. And where are the others? And don’t read my mind, it’s so rude.”
“Needlepoint cushion covers? Are you serious?” Carob was avoiding the questions, but was genuinely curious about the cushion covers.
Amy blushed. “No, I made that up. In fact, I don’t know what made me say that. I haven’t started any sketching either, but I have thought about starting sketching. And I’ve been reading. It’s an old Liz Tattler; the old ones were the best. Real old school Lizzie Tattie, if you know what I mean. Risque romps with potting sheds and stuff. None of that ghastly sci fi she started writing recently.”
“Which one?” Carob asked, and laughed when Amy held it up. “I read that years ago, T’Eggy Gets a Good Rogering, can I borrow it after you? God knows we could all do with a laugh.”
“How do you know the others need a good laugh?” Amy asked, peering at Carob with an attentive squint in order to catch any clues. “You’ve seen then, then?”
Carob smiled sadly and replied, “Only by remote viewing them.”
Amy asked where they had been and what they were doing when they were viewed remotely. Has she been remote viewing me? What if they ask her if she’s been remote viewing me, and she tells them? “Oh never mind,” Amy said quickly, “No need to answer that.”
Carob snorted, and what a strangely welcome sound it was. “I didn’t really remote view them, I made that up. It never works if I try to spy on people. Fat lot of good it is really, it never works when I really really need to see something. Or maybe it works, but I never believe it properly until later when I find out it was right.”
“Yeah,” Amy said, “It’s fun though, I haven’t done it in ages.”
“You should, it would give you something to do when everyone’s avoiding you.”
In reply to: Cofficionados Bandits (vs Lucid Dreamers)
Amy wondered afterwards if she should have said “Why is it always my fault” and hoped nobody would think el gran apagón was her fault too. Another one of the issues with typecasting too soon.
The rumours and hoaxes were rife even before the electricity came back on. The crisis of the lack of coffee beans was coming to a head: morning riots were breaking out in the places most affected by the shortage. As soon as the blackouts started, improvised statistics and numbers were cobbled together into snappy psychological colour combination images and plastered everywhere suggesting that the lack of electricity was saving an incomprehensible number of cups of coffee per day, but without causing any coffee related social disorder events.
Amy had heard that el gran apagón was foretold to occur when the pope died, that it was extraterrestrials, that it was el naranjo and his sidekick effin muck, and all manner of things, but the concerns with the coffee shortage happening at the same time as the blackouts were manifold.
The population was looking for scapegoats. Oh dear god, what did I say that for.
In reply to: Cofficionados Bandits (vs Lucid Dreamers)
“Sweaty hazel eyes… like coffee cup saucers,” muttered Carob discreetly into her phone. “Good grief. Sounds like something that dreadful Elizabeth Tattler might have written.”
Privately, she was shaken to see Ricardo. To her credit, though, she had done a splendid job of disguising her unease.
What if he gave her game away?
In reply to: Cofficionados Bandits (vs Lucid Dreamers)
“Well, I’ll give you a point for that, Thiram,” Amy said, wondering, not for the first time, about his unusual name. Was it a play on the word theorem? I must ask him about it. “But if Florida doesn’t exist anymore, which I am willing to admit it does not, then what is it doing on that map?”
“What was the population of Florida before it was submerged? Twenty four million or so?” asked Chico, appearing from behind a trumpet tree. “That’s 24 million less people drinking coffee, anyway, 144 million cups saved per day (assuming they drank 6 cups per day), which is a whopping 54.5 billion cups a year.”
“Chico! How long have you been hiding behind that trumpet tree?” asked Amy, but Chico ignored her. Nettled, Amy continued, “That would be true if all the people in Florida were submerged along with the land, but most of them were resettled in Alabama. There was plenty of room in Alabama, because the population of Alabama was relocated.”
“Yes but the people of Alabama were relocated to a holding camp in Rwanda, and they’re not allowed any coffee,” replied Chico crossly, making it up on the spot.
“Yeah I heard about that,” said Carob, which made Chico wonder if he had actually made it up on the spot, or perhaps he’d heard it somewhere too.
“I’m going back behind the trumpet tree,” announced Chico, flouncing off in high dudgeon.
“Now look what you’ve done!” exclaimed Carob.
“Why is it always my fault?” Amy was exasperated.
“Maybe because it usually is,” Carob replied, “But not to worry, at least we know where to find Chico now.”
In reply to: Cofficionados Bandits (vs Lucid Dreamers)
A mad cackle started to shake the Universe again.
“Mmm…” Thiram interjected. “Not like you to be so hung up on details now? Although, I thought that was the whole point — coffee beans acclimation to whole unexpected new places, with the AI models predicting or hallucinating the shifts of weather patterns and all? Surely coffee beans no longer grow where they’re supposed to?”
They all looked at him with eyes like coffee cup’s saucers.
“And what’s that place you’re calling Florida by the way?” he felt pressed to add.
The cackling intensified, shaking their sense of geography to the core.
In reply to: Cofficionados Bandits (vs Lucid Dreamers)
“Look, don’t get upset, ok?” Amy felt she had to nip this in the bud. “There’s something glaringly wrong with the map. I mean, yes, it does make a nice picture. A very nice picture,” she added, and then stopped. Does it really matter? she asked herself. Am I always causing trouble?
Amy sighed. Would life be easier for everyone if she stopped pointing things out and just went along with things? Was there any stopping it anyway? It’s like a runaway train.
“You were saying?” Ricardo asked.
“Pray, continue,” added Carob with a mischeivous gleam in her eye. She knew where this was leading.
“Who is he?” Amy whispered to Carob. “Well never mind that now, you can tell me later.”
Amy cleared her throat and faced Ricardo (noting that he was dark complexioned and and of medium height and wiry build, dressed in a crumpled off white linen suit and a battered Panama hat, and likely to be of Latino heritage) noticing out of the corner of her eye a smirk on Thiram’s face who was leaning against a tree with his arms folded, looking as if he might start whistling Yankee Doodle any moment.
“According to your map, my good man, nice map that it is, in fact it’s so nice one could make a flag out of it, the colours are great and….” Amy realised she was waffling. She cleared her throat and braced her shoulders, glaring at Carob over her shoulder who had started to titter.
Speak your mind even if your voice shakes, and keep the waffling to a minimum.
“My dear Ricardo,” Amy began again, pushing her long light brown hair out of her sweaty hazel eyes, and pushing the sleeves of her old grey sweatshirt up over her elbows and glancing down at her short thin but shapely denim clad legs. “My dear man, as you can see I’m a slightly underweight middle aged woman eminently capable of trudging up and down coffee growing mountains, with a particular flair for maps, and this map of yours begs a few questions.”
“Coffee beans don’t grow in Florida,” Carob interjected, in an attempt to move the discourse along.
“Nor in Morocco,” added Amy quickly, shooting a grateful glance at Carob.
-
