Beasts. Everywhere. It's a good thing I have my trusty cigars with me. I have Padrons, Opus, even a Trinadad Funadore contained in my Otterbox carrycase as I've fallen within the digital ether and landed square into a jungle of beasts. The air is smoky, acrid, and one can hear the thumping of chests. They are coming closer.
I am a far cry from the streets of NY. I am even further from my own blog, to which we don't even bring up the sacred sticks which I am so fond of. That would scare the delicate rabble whose lungs and palate have not tasted the Opus X, Rising X. Or the Padron 1926s. Or the Don Pepin rolled smoke.
No, these things would break their spine, and shear their soul. There only experience of a "good smoke" is the Garcia Vega collection they gave out when their wives launched their progeny into a doctor's sweaty grip.
I shake, upon finding this place, to share my experiences, like smoking Rocky Patel, which Rocky himself handed to me at his chateau. We are surrounded by those cigar shop gentry that he is apt to bring to his place for some good times.
"BD", he said to me, as he just finished haranguing a poor cigar reviewer "I need your skills".
"Rocky," I said, puffing on one millionth re-blend, trying not to make a face as I tasted the young flavor, "You realize that the 1990 and 1992 line doesn't taste one whit like it used to."
He stares at me blankly.
"Ok", I surrender, "I can make your entire Fusion line disappear."
"No. No. Not yet, anyway," said Rocky, giving it serious consideration, "I need to spread to the masses my Honduran blend mastery. I need your true opinion of my newest fine cigar."
I looked down at the stick in my mouth, and as he turned to greet another poor soul who hadn't tasted his new Corojo, I plant mine into a crabcake, take a swig of some Vodka, and spy James Suckling attempting to light up nearby.
"This should not take two minutes to examine it," I shout.
I swipe his and light it quickly, taking a large puff, and my heart soared. At least this wrapper properly enclosed the sharp blend and spice of the Maduro wrapper.
"An '88' surely", I muttered to myself.
Rocky saw those number on my lips, and someone else screams. Possibly Suckling.
Rocky panics...leaving the rest of the room gaping as he flees into his limo and heads straight to the airport.
He hasn't been seen since. Some of the Honduran cigar rollers say they hear his cackling laugh of "88" over and over deep into the night when the moon is high.
I wish I could speak more, but alas, the beasts have found me. My time is short. My Funadore shakes in my hand. Fidel himself may smile upon me, but even he and his plastic sphincter would quaver with the fear of where I now dwell.
Posts: 20 | Location: New York, NY | Registered: July 10, 2008
