ESPRESSO FICTION (WHO EVEN IS TARANTINO?)

 “One missing ring. One furious storm. Zero survivors (except the coffee machine).” 

'' Contains 100% Arabica. And 200% Violence.''





Singapore — 15:02


15:02: My engagement ring is no more. It’s expired. Gone to meet its maker.


Letizia’s engagement ring? Dead. Kaput. Popped its clogs and yeeted itself straight into the void.

Enter Letizia. Not walks in—she detonates into the room.
Her voice lands first, three seconds before her body, like an air raid siren duct-taped to a Harley.
Then the storm hits: chairs scrape, mugs fly, and somebody’s dignity gets decapitated on impact.

“What the actual hell is this circus?” she roars, scattering crew like pigeons at a bus station.

Listen—if the ring had been gelato, sure, I’d get it. Gelato melts, people panic, accidents happen.
But this was metal. Silver. With a coffee bean and a diamond in it. Bulletproof.
Unless you’re cursed. Or stupid. Or both.

So tell me—which one of you feral, caffeine-guzzling lunatics did it?
Who looked at my engagement ring and thought: ah yes, perfect for a single shot espresso?

Step up, genius. Don’t be shy.

The crew freezes. A spoon clatters. In the corner, the coffee machine hisses like it’s about to lawyer up.

Hazel, pale as skim milk, tries to step in:
“Do you idiots understand what you’ve done?”

But Letizia’s already pacing, trench coat flaring like a mafia don about to pick tonight’s corpse quota.

Hazel swallows hard:
“That wasn’t just silver. That wasn’t just a diamond. That was her future. And you maniacs brewed it into a macchiato.”

Hazel rips a mug off the table, holds it up like evidence in court.
“This cup right here? This cup is a CRIME SCENE.”

Silence. Nobody moves. Nobody breathes.

And then Letizia smiles. Slow. Dangerous.
“Okay. Nobody’s talking? Fine. I’ll find out who did it. And when I do… the coffee won’t be the only thing getting ground.”


[CUT TO BLACK]
TEXT ON SCREEN: Six hours later.

Letizia stands over a lineup of trembling roadies, steam curling around her from the broken espresso machine behind her.

She holds up a tiny silver spoon.
“Funny thing about metal,” she says, twirling it between her fingers.
“It always leaves a trace.”

SMASH TO BLACK.
TITLE CARD: ESPRESSO FICTION (Who Even Is Tarantino?)

END.

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