Coffee and Cream F**k the Shit out of Me

“All mag­ni­fiers must inevitably con­front the prob­lem of impetu­ous par­ti­cle con­ver­sion. They are divided into two schools on the nature and value of this process:

The first, see­ing it as a bat­tle which can be won to pre­serve the essence of these par­ti­cle man­i­fes­ta­tions; then the sec­ond, as a nec­es­sary process for growth within eter­nal monis­tic reconstruction.

There is of course, a con­sid­er­able amount of research pub­lished on both sides, how­ever, most mod­ern mag­ni­fiers tend to lean towards the lat­ter. These mod­ern schol­ars of impetu­ous par­ti­cle con­ver­sion (chiefly Comte' and Voraise) refer to this process as mawing.”

Der­rin Balen­han, author of Mag­ni­fiers, Mag­ni­fi­ca­tion, and Man.

—————

There is a quiet cof­fee shop that some days will have pie and on oth­ers, not.

Her­bert Rams­den, a man of no great impor­tance to soci­ety was sit­ting in this shop. He did not like cof­fee, nor did he like pie. The fact of the mat­ter was that Her­bert Rams­den was prone to severe con­sti­pa­tion and the only rem­edy for his par­tic­u­lar brand of con­sti­pa­tion was hot, creamy cof­fee. Her­bert was thus accus­tomed to spend­ing large amounts of time in the cof­fee shop of some days pie, and some days none. This did not bother Her­bert in the least, because it was dur­ing these vis­its that he com­pleted a great deal of his research.

Thus, Her­bert sat adrift in the void of equiv­o­cal­ness, exam­in­ing a famil­iar scene at his pre­ferred stool along the counter.

As new cus­tomers arrived to inquire about the sta­tus of pies, Her­bert exam­ined his cup thor­oughly and with rev­er­ence. Upon enter­ing, none of these cus­tomers failed to notice this strange sight. It was as if Her­bert was some liv­ing paint­ing or out-of sea­son busker.

Herbert's ass-crack had stolen free­dom beyond the bor­ders of his jeans and now rested just an inch short of the flan­nel coun­try that was his baby blue but­ton up pajama shirt. He was unwashed and bent over, hold­ing his face so close to a freshly poured cup of cof­fee that it looked as if he might burn the tip of his nose. This of course, was all part of his research.

Her­bert Rams­den had no for­mal job, although he often debated that fact. Should you meet him in the street or at a homo-gathering, he will be glad to tell you that he is quite proudly, the world's last pro­fes­sional “magnifier”.

“A mag­ni­fier?” once asked a man with soft look­ing teeth.

“Yes, as in one who stud­ies the human con­di­tion within all nature's particles.”

So on that day in the cof­fee shop, Her­bert looked into the mug of swirling cream and cof­fee and watched the two sub­stances dance with one another; reluc­tantly will­ing to become a sin­gle caf­feinated aggre­gate. There was a kind of roman­tic ten­sion stir­ring within the depths of his cup.

Of course they (the cof­fee and cream) were lovers, chem­i­cally made for one another, warmly explor­ing their part­ner's par­ti­cles with the pas­sion of a first kiss. In a moment that was sud­den and with­out med­i­ta­tion, Her­bert dropped a red stick into the cof­fee uni­verse and forced the two upon one another with a slight stir.

It was then that these lovers sim­ply tran­scended dual­ity. The par­ti­cles within them waved and the waves within them parted to one another, each and all form­ing the drink's final state.

A wisp of thin, whitish steam climbed upward in curls from the cof­fee. This excre­tion met Her­bert Ramsden's face warmly.

He smiled as he placed a fin­ger and thumb upon the han­dle of the mug con­tain­ing this new one­ness and lifted it toward his lips.

Maw­ing:

His cof­fee went down smooth and warm. How­ever, the har­mony and sin­gu­lar­ity caused by Herbert's stir­ring stick was ended quickly as the cof­fee passed through Herbert's epiglot­tis and car­diac ori­fice. The plum­met­ing uni­verse of cof­fee and cream was therein invaded by var­i­ous enzymes and acids that began to tear apart the drink's mol­e­cules like a kesselschlacht.

Pari­etal cells rounded up the weak and iso­lated caf­feine mol­e­cules, send­ing them to the cir­cu­la­tory sys­tem to end their exis­tence in hard labour.

The cream, now a mere shadow of its for­mer self was instead amal­ga­mated into the great and fiery pit of Herbert's stom­ach only to be churned around and out into the small intes­tine where it was then broiled in a mer­ci­less ocean of repug­nant bile and pan­cre­atic juices.

It was there that the very soul of the cream was seized and stripped with immense and unfeel­ing las­si­tude. When that fin­ished, what remained of the cream dripped its way into Herbert's large intes­tine where it silently allowed itself to be robbed naked of any fruit­ful par­ti­cles the rest of the dis­as­sem­bly line had missed.

At the end it was warm, dead, and fell life­lessly into Her­bert Ramsden's rec­tum. At the same time, in a final act of vengeance (and per­haps even sor­row), the cof­fee staged an uprising.

Mean­while, Her­bert had been sit­ting in the cof­fee shop won­der­ing cal­cu­lat­ing the value of nets, hooks, and such other things.

It was then that he had a sud­den urge to take a shit.