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Bacchus and the Overborg:
 A Savage Journey into the Heart 
of Sonapanoma and an Alien Plot

Sinister Whispers
By:  Bastardo

So there we were. Armed to the teeth with high octane cult wines and speeding over winding mountain roads, headed toward some of the most exclusive wineries on the left coast with a sinister madman at the wheel. Miss Vicky presented Madame and me with togas and sandals that fit surprisingly well, though Madame was hesitant to don them at first. Finally, after more "Borgundy ", we relented and settled in to meet some of our fellow "seekers." (There's a "seeker" born every minute.) There were about 20 of us, and Madame an I ended up deeply involved in a game of Sonapanoma Monopoly with Muttman, Pester, Spazz, Clitis and Vin Plays Doc. I was the first to drop out, and Madame won, as usual, but the most impressive singular aspect of the game was the fact that Cay-moose was relegated to the space normally occupied by Baltic Ave. Someone at Porker Bros. has a twisted sense of humor. 

The Borgundy kept flowing, and we were in quite the state by the time we arrived at the first stops of the day, but we weren't drunk by any means; there was more of an altered state thing going on. 

The first two producers we visited gave me a bit of a shudder, since they so succinctly described certain attributes of my once girlish figure as I approach middle age... Saddlebag and Plumpbutt are adjacent to each other, and share the same winemaker, Neil Schmenge, who is also an accomplished accordionist and polka aficionado. 

The Saddlebags showed some serious new leather, black cherry and blueberry vanilla, whilst the Plumpbutt was a fat @$$ed sweet oak low acid big berry mutha huffer. We enjoyed ourselves immensely until Bacchus and Schmenge started headbutting each other. This went on for about 20 minutes; finally Neil dropped like a Led Zepplin and we went off in search of fresh meat. 

Our next stop sent my heart all a-flutter. Rodent Ridge, what a showplace! This state of the art facility is all oak and mirrors. Our love for the Puxatawny Muskrat Rouge is well documented, but we were also taken with their proprietary red, Porta Bello, with its mushroom and blueberry characteristics. We were in heaven! 

That evening, we dined at Chez Guevara, known for its revolutionary Cuban cuisine. Afterwards, I snuck off to enjoy one of the Canusis, but my path was blocked by Bacchus, who insisted that I rejoin the others. He said the smoke would adversely affect my palate, so I reluctantly returned to our table, much to his obvious relief. Something here didn't quite wash, but I didn't give it further thought, perhaps due to the cumulative effects of the Borgundy. 

After dinner, we returned to the No Tell Motel, where we slept uneasily, as an unearthly voice insinuated itself into our dreams, repeating the designations "g3po" and "If 6 were 9." 

The next day was more of the same, as we stopped at two more wineries. 

Snowjob is up in the hills overlooking Sonapanoma. The wine is a swindle, all style and no substance. Starts out tasting great, then just disappears. 

And then there was Harlot. Vintage after vintage, this wine is a one trick pony, but it's a trick most hookers would give their tush to turn. It's like illicit sex in a glass, all creamy and dreamy. 

The Borgundy flowed freely all the time we were on the bus. The effects of the libation were not so much intoxicating as they were mesmerizing and hypnotic. I don't remember stopping for food or returning to the motel. There was only the Borgundy and a sinister whisper in my subconscious hissing, "g3po, resistance is futile..."

More later...

B

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