Drinkuntz

This is a tale about a man who could have been anyone.

In fact, his very name is Everyman,

because who he is

doesn’t really matter to our story.

For his own safety -

or so he was told -

he had to remain in his room at all hours of the day and night.

And you might be wondering:

"How did he end up accepting such advice?"

Well,

this Everyman,

back when who he was still mattered,

had a mischievous flaw:

he was curious sometimes.

He tried to understand himself -

but got stuck in moments filled with frightening meaning.

To help with that,

he had a Therapisticul-friend

who helped him feel free.

An energetic, ambitious man

who appeared out of nowhere many years ago,

as if a magnetic pull connected his presence to the pain of Everyman.

"I understand you so deeply!" the man said warmly.

​

"Your curiosity is so important, so beautiful.

But you don’t need to do much to understand yourself.

Let me tell you who you are.

You are a Drinkuntz.

That’s a rare kind of human -

a being with very special powers.

Understand? You’re special.

And that’s why you must stay in your room,

and protect your Drinkuntzic identity.

It will, in turn, protect you -

from all pain."

Everyman felt a slight twist in his stomach at that explanation.

But he noticed that the more he opened to accept it,

the more fear faded.

Years passed.

And Everyman had fallen in love with the dark -

and with his special, sacred feeling of solitude.

After finally taking the brave step of becoming a Drinkuntz,

he was amazed to discover

how right the energetic man had been.

He could feel the Drinkuntzic uniqueness pulsing through him.

And he fell in love with it more and more.

He no longer had any doubt:

it was who he was.

The ambitious man would visit every few weeks,

putting effort into his appearance,

and boasting about the white bread he brought

to the shrinking belly of Everyman.

"There’s nothing better than this out there!" he declared proudly.

"What is out there, really?"

Everyman asked from his room.

It was an old digression resurfacing -

typical of someone whose health was declining.

"Nothing interesting, my wonderful Drinkuntz.

Just dirty people.

Would you believe there are those who say the bread I bring

is morally corrupt?

Haters. Anti-Drinkuntzians.

Stay strong - for all of us!"

A year passed. Then another.

And Everyman felt lonely and hollow.

So, on one of the visits from the energetic, caring man,

he offered Everyman a rare and generous gift -

worthy of a Drinkuntz:

he brought him a woman.

She could have been any woman.

And in fact, her name was Everywoman -

because who she is

also doesn’t matter to our story.

Some time passed.

And they had a child.

His name, of course, was Everychild -

because… well, you know why.

On one of the last visits from the Breadman,

Everyman was feeling especially unwell.

Apparently, the Breadman was dying of a terminal illness.

Or so he claimed.

He had one final request,

before leaving to a better, more Drinkuntzian world:

"To preserve the sacred tradition of the Drinkuntzini,"

said the dying Breadman,

"one must cut -

in a short, barely noticeable procedure -

the child’s pinky finger."

Everyman felt his stomach twist -

and wasn’t sure it was hunger this time.

He recalled a vague pain,

a distant fantasy

of fear he had once felt -

before he ever met the wonderful Breadman

who helped him conquer it.

Everyman,

who had grown so attached and comforted

by the generous man who brought him white bread,

a wife, and a child -

reminded himself what was fantasy

and what was real.

Now, their child is Drinkuntzified.

"Promise me you’ll keep him here, in the room.

That he’ll remain a Drinkuntz all his life?"

he asked of Everyman and Everywoman,

the faithful Drinkuntzians.

They nodded,

choking back tears of joy

full of Drinkuntzianic meaning.

And outside the room -

far, far away from the room -

thousands upon thousands of Drinkuntz-Everyman

sat in the darkness of their rooms,

having received the exact same farewell words

from the Breadman,

who was, in fact,

a rather successful trader of natural resources and arms.

And if only they had left the room,

breathed in the air and the atmosphere they all shared,

and seen one another as Isness that mattered -

the Breadman would’ve had to find

a different line of goods to trade.