The Bootlegger's Grandson

Ben dozed off in the ratty old green chair in the corner of the bedroom, something he hadn't done in quite some time. The kids were all safely asleep, and his wife Mary Agnes was reading an old leatherbound copy of "The Prince" by the light of a small kerosene lamp on the nightstand. His snoring made her smile as she kept reading.

He jolted awake, just an instant before the grandfather clock leaning against the far wall sounded 1:00 a.m.

"Go back to sleep, Ben. You're exhausted." Mary said, not looking up from page 136.

"Can't," he said as he stood up and rubbed his face. "The cattle need attention."

Ben threw on his thick canvas coat and his ever-present grey fedora, something he was never seen without when he was out of doors.

"They're fine," she said, her nose still buried.

"It'll only be a little while." He kissed the top of her head and gingerly walked into the hallway on the creaky old hardwood floor. She never did look up.

Outside, amongst the corn and sorghum, Ben walked briskly toward the ravine.

'Let's get this over with,' he thought. 'I can see my own breath. This is ridiculous. '

Click.

"Why," he thought, "is a gun pointed at me every time I step out of the house. Am I in the right line of work, even considering these challenging economic times?" Grandpa was excellent at both hooch-running and the foreshadowing of events decades in the future.

"Turn around," a deep voice said. Ben recognized it and did as directed.

Staring him right in the face was Ernst Schroeder, his rival for both Mary Agnes' heart and the vast, deep rivers that ran brown with moonshine.

"Evening, Ben," Ernst said, a smirk on his face and his World War I rifle in his hands.

"Ernst," he said, with more sarcasm than one might expect. "Are we going to do this every night?"

"Until I get some of your territory or all of Mary, yes."

"We both know you don't have a big enough operation to handle even one of my customers."

"That's a good point. I guess I'll be needing a few of your men and stills."

"Then I guess I'd better fetch Mary." It was a hilarious rejoinder, but neither laughed.

"You won't be able to control your empire on one leg, Schneider," Ernst said as he leveled his rifle at Ben's knee.

Ben honestly didn't know what was going to happen until it did. Ernst pulled the trigger, but the bolt was so rusty that it sparked when the action pushed down on the chamber, the bullet exploded in the barrel*. Ernst was startled and tripped backwards onto his fat German ass, but he wasn't otherwise hurt.

Until, that is, Ben clocked him in the jaw, knocking out a tooth and giving him a permanent clicking noise that would rear its head every time he ate sausage. In Windthorst, Texas, that meant every meal of his life would sound like a metronome inside his puffy head.

"If I see you here again, you'll end up with the hogs," Ben said as he continued down to the ravine.

Ernst could only rub his jaw and pound the dirt with his fist like Yosemite Sam.

Ben shoved his hands in his pockets and stood next to Armando.

"How are we doing tonight, Armando?"

TO BE CONTINUED

* If it isn't obvious, I have absolutely no idea what I'm talking about.

Ray Stantz and the Kingdom of the Expensive Vodka

Thanks to the modern wonder that is John Hodgman, I discovered CRYSTAL HEAD VODKA, a distilled spirit hauked by none other than Elwood Blues. It is, in short, most likely middling quality vodka in a bottle SHAPED LIKE A HUMAN SKULL. Dan Aykroyd explains that Bruni glass of Milan spent over two years developing the skull bottles based on a design by noted artist John Alexander.

I ask you: how am I not supposed to order some?

Distilled? Piss off. Double distilled? Get the eff outta here. TRIPLE distilled? Sir, I demand you leave my parlor at ONCE!

Crystal Head Vodka is quadruple distilled.*

How am I not supposed to order some?

Through Herkimer Diamonds, no less. Until now, I was not aware that jewels of any ilk are important in the distillation process. From now on, I shall put rubies in my wine and emeralds in my beer. Suck it, Mondavi/Jose Cuervo.

I found some at Napacabs.com and placed my order post-haste. I can't imagine what the bottles cost, but at $39.99, I figure the vodka is just a bonus.

A month or so from now, dear readers, you might find yourself smack dab in the middle of a telephonic conversation with your humble diarist similar to the one below.

"Hi Charlie. What's going on?"

"I'm just reclining on a chez lounge, eating a whole roasted chicken."

"That sounds fun."

"Oh, I forgot. I'm also drinking homebrew out of a CRYSTAL SKULL."

* Is this somehow important?