As I sit and ponder my upcoming investigative article on psychic readings, I take a sip of wine to relax and reflect. It’s from a bottle of Shiraz that my fiancé brought for me before he left for the weekend. And it hits me like an ambush from the soldiers of hell. I gasp and clench my jaw in an effort to suppress the sharp stab of pain between the ear and juggler vein. As the liquid passes down my throat to my stomach, it burns like an unholy river of gasoline.
What just happened, I wonder? My introspection and deepest thoughts evaporated with a small sip of swill called Black Opal Shiraz. Could it really be that bad? I’m sure the selection in the fine establishment boasting the name LIQUOR in red neon was somewhat limited, but would anyone really sell this poison?
But because I am very much looking forward to composing my thoughts in this quiet little hotel room, I second guess my gut, and with the taste of refuse still dancing on my tongue, I take another drink. Once again the hammer of the unholy strikes me dumb.
Since I was recently promoted from staff writer to Contributing Editor, I am feeling the pressure to step it up and carry my weight. A perfect evening once full of inspiration has gone awry with one bad bottle of the grape, supposedly originating from somewhere in Australia. I believe it’s actually a demon enzyme raised from the drudges of a cesspit in the middle of the Earth.
Sorry, Editor, you’ll have to wait until I recover from this for any more work. A good bottle of vino or a pay raise may do the trick.