Liberty and Coffee for All

i suffer from a recurring dream afflicting my sleep at least twice weekly. i have been relocated from an earth "no longer suitable to my type" to a colony called Liberty on a green planet a few solar systems over. i work in some sort of city office where everyone accepts all this as normal, of course.

The major employer in the colony, besides the government, is Allemand Industries Inc. - new, rebuilt or remanufactured, we can help you make the right choice - specializing in the sales and services of diesel engines and accessories for the marine, industrial, oilfield and fishing industries. Allemand Industries can complete what others have problems finishing, if you know what i mean. out the back door, naturally, they run a side interest in the liquidation of political undesirables get shipped in real regular from earth. this being one of the main functions of Liberty.

in the city office, i am treated like a moron. given tedious drone-like tasks, and monitored constantly, with talk about my "future with the organization" etc. everyone acts like their lives are full of purpose and direction toward some grand end, which, insofar as i am able to witness, appears nothing more than a grand delusional fantasy. by the same token i feel i am forced to live in the same way. all i have to do to be allowed to continue is to smile and say i like it.

the most horrible thing about Liberty is that there is an endless supply of free coffee, but the coffee maker hasn't been cleaned properly in years and in consequence the coffee is absolutely nasty in flavor. all the nasty coffee you can drink. welcome to Liberty.

cut to the Bureau of Agricultural Logistics. i am just finished with a 300 page report on the feasability of sustainable oatmeal and plop it on the formica desktop of Agent Cornporn, 27th district manager for distribution of hoof jelly. he puts down his paper, glances at the report and looks at me like i just rolled a turd into his ambrosia salad.

He closed the laptop and thought about what he'd just read. His little brother was a paean to modern life, roving the world with no ties or restrictions. Sometimes, Harold wished that he, too, had such a life but he enjoyed stability too much.
Harold checked the time on the wall. He needed to meet the small bald man in the cafe in fifteen minutes and he decided to stroll down by the river. The city rose above him as he took the elevator down (it only went down, for some odd reason, and no one had ever figured out how it got to the top again). Florcus stopped a passersby and pointed to the word 'піна' written on a napkin. The man he had stopped pointed up the hill (a very large hill), on the top of which stood a tall, rickety building bearing піна in large golden letters. Harold thanked the man and began the vertical trek. The small trees on either side of the road changed from decidiuous to coniferous in a matter of minutes and Harold began to experience dizziness associated with vertigo. Finally he got inside and ordered some fortifying soup and coffee.
The bald man Florcus was meeting was called Guiseppe and was an italian expat in the Ukraine. He had been in the country since his hair was down to his shoulders. He was married to a french woman called Marie who had cut her hair in close curls in sympathy to her husband. He worked as a palaentologist and was supervising a dig near the city boundaries. He was picking at a plate of chicken bones covered in borscht while absent mindedly listening to a TV shouting out sport commentaries in ukrainian. As he saw the breathless Florcus through the lace curtains, he waved and waited.
'What does піна mean?', asked Florcus as he sat down, his face red from the exertion.
'It means scum', said Guisseppe, scraping another bone.
'Isn't that a bit odd?' asked Florcus. He didn't understand ukrainian humour. 'Of course', said Guisseppe, 'It is intended that the irony would be seen...' but he shrugged. 'At least it's not as odd as the Allemanni bar down the hill.
'What does Allemanni mean?' asked Florcus, starting to revive.
'The owner believes himself to be descended from Attila the Hun', Guiseep replied, chuckling at the idea. 'I think the name comes from the region that Attila is from.'
At that moment, a man behind Guiseppe turned around exasperatedly and thickly replied 'No! No! It comes from the name of a Suebic tribe or confederation that settled in Alsace and part of Switzerland (and source of the Fr. Allemand "German"), from *Alamanniz, probably meaning "all-man" and denoting a wide alliance of tribes, but perhaps meaning "foreign men" (for example, referring to Allobroges, name of a Celtic tribe in what is now Savoy, in L. lit. "the aliens," in reference to their having driven out the original inhabitants), in which case the al- is cognate with the first element in L. alius "the other" and the english 'Else'."
He paused for breath.
'Who asked you?' said Guiseppe, visibly annoyed at the obvious eavesdropping.
'I'm an etymologist' replied the newcomer and moved his chair over to join their table.
'Isn't that bugs?' asked Florcus. They both looked at him.
'That's etomology' said the stranger at last and smiled out of the corner of his mouth. 'I get that a lot.'
'Meh.' repled florcus and returned to his soup which was starting to congeal at the edges. He mopped it up with a chunk of bread. The other two returned to arguing intensely about whether or not it was appropriate to correct a mistake made in a private conversation. Florcus looked around the cafe. The menu included several varieties of ukrainian spam and the wallpaper was made out of that curious material which seems to almost be fabric, but too shiny. The sports had turned into a wildlife documentary on otters. Students entered the cafe and started copying homework off each other at a table in the corner. The owner came over and flicked at them with his towel, shouting at them to pay or clear off. They all chipped in together to get a plate of meatballs, knowing that it would take about half an hour for them to be ready and in that time they would be nearly finished. The owner left looking slightly happier.
Guiseppe turned to Florcus. 'Francis here says he can help us with your work. Tell him what you think, Francis.'
Francis thumbed the buttons on his coat and hemmed and hawed and showed a toothy smile. He obviously liked being the centre of attention and made the most of it. He cleared this throat theatrically, causing some of the students to look over. This further increased the effect of his being on the stage.
He began '.....