by Al Drinkle
Please note that the following is a sequel to "The Fastest Corkscrew in the West" , which we recommend you read first.
Nighttime was cold in the badlands, and the days were insufferably hot. Betwixt these extremes, Frank “The Cornas Kid" and Billy “The Nose" were afforded a few hours of relative comfort. They were hiding out in a desolate graveyard, awaiting an appointment with an unknown agent at an unspecified time.
Should anyone visit such a forlorn place during their tenure there, Frank had instructed Billy to sprawl on the ground and act like a corpse that somebody had forgotten to bury. Over the past few years, Billy had had extensive practice in this position due to immense inebriation, whereby he would soil himself and pass out in streets, fields and saloons alike. But Frank knew that if any adversaries rode through and didn't fall for the trick, he could always remove their eyes with his corkscrew, or simply use it to stop their heart. After all, Frank was the fastest corkscrew in the west.
It had been three days since Frank had stumbled upon Billy in a saloon in Calgary. He knew that Billy the Nose was one of the only people talented enough to authenticate the stolen bottle of ancient Sercial that he had been dragging around in a battered guitar case. But there was just one problem—Billy the Nose would have to sober up first. So after telegraphing a very loose plan to the nearest chapter of the League of Outlaw Sommeliers, Frank purloined a wagon, fastened it to his horse, Graach, and tied a liquor-sick Billy to its bench. He also procured some cases of what, in about 90 years, would come to be known as “kabinett" Riesling from the Mosel. With its modest alcohol content, he figured that he could get just buzzed enough to ward off the tedium of the wait, and Billy could sober up enough to be useful without dying of withdrawal.
Frank saddled up Graach and pointed him eastwards, sipping from a bottle of Trittenheimer as they rode under a sprawling sky. They were still a good distance from the badlands when an infernal noise emanated from the wagon, sounding as if it came from the very bowels of Hell. Delirium tremens have set in, Frank thought to himself, as Billy's shrieks and wails coerced the sun into setting.
Frank was happy to have quit Calgary. He liked to drink as much as the next guy, and more if we're being honest, but he couldn't abide the way that the townsfolk went about it in early July. They acted as if liquor's prime directive was to instigate the purging of one's stomach—an act that Calgarians shamelessly practiced in public, decorating the streets and boardwalks with vomit like it was a requisite civic duty. Besides, with all the bustle of this time of year, the town was a risky place for Outlaw Sommeliers to meet. So he drank with Billy in the badlands, awaiting a messenger who was to be disguised as a Catholic priest.
After much suffering, Billy began to show some improvement. His eyes regained focus, his demeanour suggested virility, and his legendary blind tasting skills slowly resurfaced. “Alright, Nose, what about this one," Frank challenged, liberating the cork from yet another bottle. Billy swirled and sniffed from his tin cup, gazing thoughtfully upon the horizon before sending the wine sloshing about his mouth.
“Dusemonder Hasenläufer, 1876," he replied with assurance. “No, wait… it's Mötschert. I almost missed the petrichor note."
Frank simply nodded in approval, taking an intemperate draught from his own cup. Just then, a cloaked figure appeared from behind a tombstone. Billy played dead as Frank's right hand hovered above his corkscrew.
“Blessings, my sons, blessings," rasped the man, who was convincingly attired as a priest, if a slightly bedraggled and road-weary one. Observing the immodest collection of green bottles strewn amongst the gravestones, he added, “God's children should have strength, and forgo spirituous liquors."
“Jesus Christ, friend," Frank chuckled, “you're sure playing up the part."
“Spare me the blasphemies, my son. They're corrosive to the soul."
His patience fading, Frank began to wonder if something was amiss. “Alright, enough horseshit. You must have had a long journey. Could I offer you a snort of Mötschert, or perhaps a cup of water?"
“I'd be much obliged for some water, my son," replied the man. This was the confirmation Frank needed, for under no circumstances would a member of the League of Outlaw Sommeliers choose water over Riesling. Never had a priest been in such a wrong place at such a wrong time. Frank contemplated piercing the man's brain with his corkscrew, for what would be one more corpse in this dismal place? But he had never dusted a priest, and it didn't seem like the right time to start.
“Tell you what, partner," Frank menaced, as Billy began to stir amidst the impending action. “We ain't got no water, and I reckon it's high time that you got your unlucky tuchus out of here, unless you're in a rush to meet Saint Peter…"
The priest wisely made an unceremonious departure, leaving Frank and Billy bewildered by the absurdity of the situation. They were so engrossed in the heat-blurred image of the priest disappearing over the horizon that they almost didn't notice yet another sign of life in the graveyard. Approaching them on horseback was Oloroso, Frank's malodorous interlocutor from the bar in Calgary. He was ineffectually costumed as the most excommunicable, unhygienic clergyman that had ever walked God's green earth.
“Hola amigos," he stammered, clearly exhausted from his journey. “Billy, Guau! It has been an eternidad since I have seen you with unsullied pantalones! Cornas Kid, I am here representing the League of Outlaw Sommeliers, and I have word of comerciantes de vino who will relieve you of the contents of your guitar case for mucho dinero."
Frank lobbed a bottle of Wintricher to Oloroso, replying, “much obliged, amigo. This is welcome news. Who might these merchants be?"
“Their names, señor, are Ricard Harvé and Aloysius Drinkall. They operate in a fancy new building on the railway tracks."
“Hmmmmm, rings a bell but I can't place them," said Frank, only for the laconic Billy to respond with unusual effusion.
“They're a couple of incorrigible libertines!" he declared. “Notorious rapscallions, drunken reprobates, unyielding deviants, you name it! They operate with a gang of similarly debauched miscreants—each more depraved than the next. This is going to be messy."
“It's true what The Nose says,” Oloroso confirmed. “Ellos son demonios, but when it comes to wine, Harvé and Drinkall are serious and apasionado. They will do business, señor."
Frank weighed his very limited options. The purloined contents of his guitar case had become burdensome, and the Mosel wine was running dry. He worried that given his newfound sobriety, Billy could pull a Houdini at any moment, and Graach was in need of water. He didn't like the sounds of the Harvé gang, but the prospect of gold was tinkling in his ears.
“Alright, Nose," Frank drawled, opening his guitar case. “It's time for you to take a sniff of this here Sercial. If it's bona fide, we're Calgary-bound to see about these dissolute wine merchants."
