Coffee...indeed? Not only was I fishtailing back-and-forth between whether-or-not to succumb to the caffeinated-enchantments of an incredibly humane pot of signature coffee, I was desperately attempting to wrap my head around the repulsive cleanliness of the office coffee-machine; what kind of monster would cauterize the hemorrhaging wound that was my coffee-maker? The forever-thickening flavours of a thousand coffees...BRUTALIZED by some unknown hand; left-over aroma-combinations to inform the tastes of new blends...DEBASED by some agent of bedevilment, some demon of decontamination.
Irrepressible rage filled me in the way that one would fill a pastry shell - about three-quarters full, just so that the filling doesn’t spill-over in the oven...and, much like the way piping-hot lemon-meringue filling would scald itself on an efficiently-heated pie-tray, my anger was bubbling into a sickly-yellow puddle of tart, lemony revenge.
More caffeineless, pseudo-protoplasmic energy-drink was my only hope, my lonely wingman as I left the sickening shell of a formerly-great Lawson Detective Agency office behind...I was informed of Randy’s sudden and acute consciousness at the Jail House, and unless a valid explanation was in the offering, he was to receive every delightful-drop of citrus-flavoured, pie-crusty vengeance that was due.
Entry 4
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