CIGAR #2
...I awake an hour or so later, enveloped by a haze. I know my senses have mostly come to as I detect the strange odor of what seems a lingering smoke - a smoke I detect purely through smell and feel, for - inexplicably - my sight has yet to return.
As I stumble slowly through my surroundings - feeling for what, I do not know - I happen upon what I ultimately recognize as a comfortable chair seated before a small desk crafted of a fragrant cedar.
Now seated at the desk I run my fingers over each of the items there upon, discovering them one shape at a time. The first appears to be an ordinary box of matches; the next a single finger ashtray - too large for a cigarette; lastly, an aluminum can that is cool to the touch.
I open the can, inhale the seeping aroma, and partake.
"Sweet ambrosia, nectar of the gods!" I exclaim.
I at once know the contents to be red bull and she's sweet to my tongue.
Continuing my fingerly sojourn, I discover what feels to be a tall piece of hand blown glass. It could be a vase, save for an odd detachable glass piece stuffed with an aromatic herb. Again, I partake...
I awake again, with no concept of how much time has passed. I’m still blind but kinda relaxy feeling and hungry in the gut; I pine for nachos. I feel about the desk but nachos are not to be found. Instead, I find a clump of organized organic material. 5 1/2 to 6 inches in length with a ring gauge of 50 or so, I recognize this clump.
"A cigar - "
"SM-O-O-O-KE!" a booming voice interrupts me from the rafters above.
"What the bloody - "
"SM-O-O-O-KE!" the voice interrupts again.
"God?" I ask sheepishly.
"NOOOO! This is keith, the guy who lives in your attic. I bring you a gift of cigar and red bull. SM-O-O-O-KE!"
"Keith?" I ask, again sheepishly, "Are you just a figment of my imagination?"
"This isn't about me" he replies. "This is about the cigar. Now SM-O-O-O-KE!!
Satisfied by the response, I again feel about the desk before me and happen upon a cigar cutter. With twice the power wielded by that French reign of terror, I apply the cutter to the clump and execute him, swiftly and justly.
"He's dead, Keith."
Keith doesn't respond and I begin to wonder if even have an attic.
The cigar is semi-smooth to the touch; like weather-worn braille, veins are present but unpronounced. If there's an aroma, I don't perceive it. The draw is near perfect, slightly loose. I set slow but certain fire to my now-capless victim, and like a Salem witch she burns - slow, but unto certain death.
I drag once and twice upon her, but like a wayward child her burn line runs immediately astray. Her strength is subtle but present, as with an arthritic nun whose ruler seeks a pupil.
(this could be an ab black market)
Flavor wise, I've detected nothing remarkable - essentially tobacco. I've ordered a double espresso with infused chocolate and I think the waitress has brewed it with battery acid.
The burn has gone a bit wonky on me. A slight correction is in order, as a portion of the wrapper seems hell bent on defying the fire. As I correct what is promptly becoming a bit of a canoeing situation I can't help but wonder iffn't the witches of 1800's burned this stubbornly.
With the burn of the cigar tamed and the coffee acid removed from my mouth, the flavors of the cigar have sorted themselves a bit. There's a sharp white pepper flavor that sits on your tongue at the tail of the exhale. Like Voodoo and plantains, it's a trait I tend to associate with Dominicans.
The burn is prodigal and requires another correction but I am confident in her ultimate ability to find and adhere to the straightened path.
With the first third behind, I trod on to greater things. Although the wrapper is thick and requires a double draw for a full volume of smoke, the flavor of the cigar has become significantly more pronounced. The sharp twang is ever present, but alongside it has come hints of leather and treenuts.
I grope about for that smelly vase thingy again; match struck, I draw deeply and satisfactorily. I require juice, for my mouth has grown cottony.
