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                                T-File_12_____August_1_2005
                              The Trimethylxanthine Crackdown
                                         By Emoticon
                               

                                       -:[6:00 AM]:-

	That infernal, 12 cubic inch, black box screeched demonically at me to get up.  
I never thought I could have so much hatred for an inanimate hunk of plastic.  

	I was mad at myself for depriving my body of the sleep it had screamed for, and 
promised myself I'd get eight solid hours tonight.  It was an empty promise I made to 
every morning and broke every night.

                                       -:[6:03 AM]:-

	I took a shower.  Head down.  Eyes half-opened.  Too tired to wash any part of 
my body that was remotely difficult to reach.  I just stood there letting the hot water 
run off my my oily skin.

                                       -:[6:10 AM]:-

	I walked in the kitchen, my towel still around my waist.  I was finally awake.  
Well, as awake as I could be before I got my fix.

	Breakfast cabinet.  I pushed a couple General Mills (tm) boxes clumsily out of 
the way and pulled out the good stuff:

	One black plastic cone filter
	One paper filter
	One small paper bag with a serving's worth of beans left
	One thick round wooden brush
	One clunky hand-cranked bean grinder

	I emptied my "tea kettle" into the sink, refilling it with just enough fresh 
water for one cup - I didn't need to waste time boiling useless water.  Replacing the 
kettle on the burner and cranking up the flame, I continued with my daily ritual.  
	I emptied the paper bag into the top section of the grinder, allowing the 
intoxicating aroma to enter my nose and stimulate me nerves, and noted that I'd have to 
score some more columbian on the way home.  I closed the small metal door and began 
grinding.
	The harsh cracking of the beans caught in the steel gears was quickly tamed as 
they were refined enough to drop down into the drawer below.  I opened the door and 
brushed down the residual grounds.
	I put my favorite ceramic mug on the counter, and placed the cone filter on 
top.  (I loved how well that filter fit around the rim of my mug, it was like they were 
made for each other.)  I spread the paper filter inside the plastic cone atop the mug, 
and emptied the drawer of my grinder into it evenly.
	By this time the water had begun dancing in anticipation of what came next.  I 
slowly poured it out of the kettle into the filter, and let it soak through the beans, 
pass through the paper, and drip through the hole in the black plastic cone filter into 
the mug.  
	I was careful not to pour the water too fast, that's key in making good, strong 
coffee.

                                       -:[6:22 AM]:-

	I sat down at my kitchen table to drink the brew, leaving my supplies spread 
about the counter.  With every sip, energy - life - poured into my mouth and permeated 
through my entire body - through my very soul.  Early morning sun was now flooding the 
room.

                                       -:[6:24 AM]:-

	I was rudely interrupted halfway though my fix by a pack of shouting invaders 
crashing through my front door and racing into the kitchen.  The coffee that I so loved 
burned my belly and stained my towel in the midst of the escalating cocaphonic 
confusion of my once quiet kitchen filling with narcs, head to toe in black riot gear, 
who were now tearing it apart, like crazed frat boys.
	Two of the neanderthals pointed giant machine guns at my head.  (As if a drowsy 
towel-clad librarian posed such a great threat as to warrant this "precaution.")  
	Three more of these oafs were destroying everything they could get their hands 
on, and generally making a mess of my entire abode under the guise of "searching" for 
more illicit substances.
	Still flabbergasted by the rapidly transpiring events, I was thrashed across 
the table from behind by one grunt, and cuffed behind my back by another.
	Shouting my Miranda rights at me did nothing but disorient me further.  How 
could this be happening?  Since when did they raid _users_?  I never sold the stuff, I 
never even bought a lot, and trimeth isn't even a hard drug!
	It didn't matter that I couldn't hear my supposed rights as they were barked at 
me; I knew I had the right not to say shit to my unwelcome house-guests.
	Every now and then the 'marksmen' with massive guns still pointing at me would 
try to coerce me into revealing where my "stash" was.
	Fuck them, you know they're just dunking donuts in it 10 minutes later down at 
the station.

                                      -:[10:00 PM]:-

	I'd been charged with possession, and some bullshit paraphernalia charges.  I 
couldn't make bail, so I stretched out on the rickety cot in my temporary 640 cubic 
foot home.  I hadn't slept like that since my unemployed high school summers.
	
	Hey, I guess I kept that promise, after all...

                                        -:[FIN]:-