The Rolling Stone - Best of Friends

Today your humble author has a wierd new twist for the blog. I received a letter, not more than five days ago, from my old friend Tiberius, living somewhere in southern Mexico and traveling freely about the country. The letter was written on a long sheet of papyrus and sealed inside an empty wine bottle, for reasons that have not been made clear.

It seems like a desperate attempt at publicity from this wretched bastard, and perhaps some last-ditch effort to increase the stock of the vineyard he has just invested in.

If for nothing other than the sake of entertainment, here is the letter, in its near entirety, courtesy of Tiberius Wellington Nero:

Dear Jay,

Trapped inside this fucking room with nothing more than a bleeding pen and this rancid shred of papyrus paper that I found in the corner. They must have abandoned me here for two hours already. Something about a drug deal gone bad. I was scouring through the room when I found an unopened bottle of La Redonda Vino Blanco Semi Seco; 2004.

Desperate with panic, I uncorked the bugger and twisted it toward my lips.

The first sip was filled with cork, which I swallowed down heartily. Never use a Swiss Army pocketknife to open a bottle, my friend. But then you already know that.

But back to the wine, eh?

Upon my first real sip, which I have just taken, I feel the zest of lemon, or some kind of sour citrus.

Fuck! The staleness at the tip of my tongue is wretched. Keep going. Tangy now. A twist of some kind of grapefruit. Maybe.

People are familiar with the wines from our Baja Region, but few know of the secret treasures of the cabernet and malbec vino here in Queretaro, Zacatecas and Aguas Calientes,

I am thinking of fish now. Suddenly. Maybe some Halibut or Mackerel. Yes. A squirt of lime with fish would be nice. Always squeeze the lime upward. Keep the seeds out of your food.

Fuck. Open the bottle Jay. Take a whiff of this sweet fruit. Grown right here in the bitter heart of Queretaro. Maybe, just maybe, this bottle will get me through the next few hours. Hopefully less. No one really knows the raw power of the beast. This sickly mead we sip on in the dark hours, when we think no one is looking. But that is for us to know and them to find out, eh? Women may have the call of the siren, but we will always have the upper hand -- as long as we control the booze.

Faster now. Half the bottle is gone, and I still have a ways yet to go on this papyrus. There is a damp, musty smell in this rotten room, and the oak-laden texture of this fucking grape soda is not doing much to help it.

But I apologize. I know better than to refer to wine as grape soda. Especially in front of an old merlot field like yourself.

....................[Edited due to obscene content].......................

Reaching the bottom of the bottle now. Too hazy to focus. I have to get out of this room. Shit, this letter may be the last I write. I am drifting off. Got to preserve it. Stick it in the bottle. I hope this letter reaches you well. Sorry there was no wine left. But

I have always been a liquor-monger.

Keep the Faith.

Yours,

T.W.N.