Cassandra returns… or does she?

“Hey Bunzenburner,” she said. “Ben!” She then turned to whispering in my ear: “Bunny, wake up.” My head hurt so much, I thought someone was attempting to assemble an Ikea cupboard inside my skull. My faculties were so impaired with pain that the idea didn’t seem farfetched at all. “Waaw,” I started mumbling to myself, “I didn’t think it was possible for one single head to hurt this much.” If one could somehow tap the throbbing hangovers of a dozen Chelsey soccer fans the day after a lost match, and siphon their content into a single cranium, sure. But one head? There must be some kind of mistake. Nonetheless this also, I was ready to believe. I was ready to believe anything anyone told me because not only was I hungover, I was very much drunk still. “Bunny Bunzenburner, you wake up this instant!” It was a familiar voice, and after laborious attempts to open my eyelids, I was presented with a familiar face as well. “Cassandra,” I managed to say. “You are here.” “You can say that again,” she meowed, “well, seeing what state you’re in, it’s probably best you save your energy and stick to saying things just once. But, yes, I’m here, finally.” “Mm,” I ventured with extreme effort, rolling onto my belly so that I could behold the black feline shape from a more orthodox angle. “How are you Bunz? I’ve been worried about you,” she said, sitting next to me with her front paws together in solemn inquiry. “Oh, I’ve been… what’s the word? Good. Yes, that’s it, I’ve been good. How about you? I’ve been looking all over Italy for you.” “I’ve been okay honey. Don’t you worry about me. It’s you that we oughta worry about. You see, you were right all along. There is a conspiracy, and it does involve dogs.” “Really?” I said, trying to ignore the paper crackle of building instructions that someone was unfolding in my head. “Yes.” “Oh.” Cassandra looked at me expectantly in between attempts to lick the back of her head. The puzzled cupboard owner meanwhile had dropped a hammer on his toes and was dancing about somewhere in my occipital lobe, raging with anguish. “Sorry, what was my theory again?” “Dogs Bunz, dogs. Boy, you really are toasted. Italian wine will do that for you…. Anyway, so yes, the world is in great peril. Great peril. Great peril.” “Did you say ‘great peril’ three times just now?” “No, you are simply very drunk that’s all. Let me get you some coffee.” I could just make out the black sway of her tail as she tiptoed away, before slipping back into the depths of my fraught consciousness. Now, five hours later, there isn’t a trace of her and I can’t even be certain that this conversation has taken place it all. I woke up, not in the winery, but inside the villa. From afar the incessant staccato of Luigi’s voice could be heard going off to Lord knows who. “Il mio Dio, non capisco come montare questo armadietto marcio.” Beside me a young woman wiped the night from her eyes with the smile of a thousand glorious rose petals, cooing: “hi coniglietto, come siete questa mattina?” I could tell that she was very poor because she wasn’t wearing any clothes. I really must take care of this hangover.