#Arturo Fuente cigars | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

manic-poetry-lover · 2 months ago

Text

I watch it on the screen, eyes enchanted and mouth agape.

The image of the body on the ground fills me with such strange elation, what is this feeling?

Like a clawing in my abdomen. Crackling.

I watch the woman with glittering garnish dangling from her ears and around her throat, decorating her succulent fingers, as she proclaims what a heinous thing this was. How she can’t understand the shooter’s motive.

I am puzzled, shooter’s motive? Surely she is not that big of a fool? Surely there is more meat in her skull than that?

I watch the papers plastered to the poles, offering $10,000 for information, I shiver in the thin coat of wishes as I read. I ponder how many dinners I could purchase with money like that. I lick the ink from the tree’s corpse, hoping it tastes like frosting. It tastes like stale.

There is an urge. An urge to bite, to gnaw, to chew, to swallow. I feel this urge to squeeze it between my fingers and drink the juices that fall, like oranges that trickle sparkling sugars, need only a peeling.

And I look at the face of the shooter, and his face is like mine. He buys a granola bar to satiate something inside him. I would bury a knife in a man’s chest for something to eat right now.

The need grows inside me, like an animal. It is feral and evil and dauntless. It will bite and crunch on anything it can wrap its jaws around. I feel it begin to ache.

And I see a man, brought on a silver tray with wheels and an Aston Martin logo, proclaim what a heinous act this was. His tie tugged right around his throat, the color of saucey red.

And I see another man, between his meaty fingers is a Arturo Fuente cigar that circles his body and smokes his fleshy exterior. And he cries out how the jokes are not funny, blowing out another cloud to finely dry age his insides.

And I see a woman with arms so delicate, the heaviest thing she’s ever lifted was shopping bags and investment portfolios. Her muscles are tender like veal and her skin glows with cosmetic butteriness as she denounces those of us who made t shirts to afford rent that quarter.

The crackling louder now. It growls. I stumble and fall, faint and dizzy. Like my insides will cave in only in mere moments and I will lick up the debris for hopes of feeling even just slightly less hungry-

Yes… *Hunger*. That is what I feel.

I am hungry, and as I look at my neighbor, I see his sunken in cheeks. I see his withered hands, and I see his teeth sharp and pointed.

I look at my friend, I see her half lidded eyes trained on the fatty rolls of their necks. I see her smelling herbs and spices to pair with pork.

I look in the mirror and I see a ghost. I see ribs and dull flesh, and I lick my lips as I stare at the poster.

I am hungry, I say.

They will be angry, tell us it is our fault. To work harder. Work longer. To invent using imagination as tools and debt as material. To form using dust as building blocks and air as our assets.

My neighbor, my friend, and I glance at one another. The world around us glance between hungry faces and starving bellies. We smile, having found our dinner.

And when we have them pinned to the butchering block, they will ask why we blame them.

And we will say, with licked lips-

Are you shocked that our mouths begin to water?

When you went and fattened yourself for the slaughter?

#deny defend depose #united healthcare

70 notes · View notes

ragingbookdragon · 2 years ago

Text

A Memory Lives On

Simon "Ghost" Riley x Reader One-Shot

Word Count: 1.7K Warnings: Sad...?

Author's Note: I kinda forgot Simon's entire family was murked on Christmas Eve so...here's sad and kind of happy -Thorne

**********************************************************************

Spades always has a ridiculous amount of money. Everyone is at an understanding that it’s from her job as an international assassin, but they still can’t help but wonder how there just seems to be a never-ending flow of funds. That being said, they’ve never exactly questioned the extra supplies and protype weapons that mysteriously appear in the base for their whims. And the gifts she gives are stellar too.

Last year on Gaz’s birthday she bought two thousand dollars’ worth of Lego sets of the Death Star and the Millennium Falcon from Star Wars. Gaz cried. He literally opened the wrapping paper and cried for a solid five minutes because he had been so happy.

Another year she gave Soap a week’s vacation for his birthday, a full week rented at Blair Castle in Highland Perthshire. The entire castle to himself, full service from the best cooks and servants’ money could buy. Soap came back more Scot than he’d ever been.

One birthday, she’d given Price six boxes of rare cigars, three boxes for each brand of Royal Danish Cigars and Arturo Fuentes Opus X. Everyone had to admit that they’d never seen the Old Man so damned relaxed while smoking a cigar whilst reclining in a velvet chair with a bourbon in his hand.

And yet, for Ghost, she never gave him gifts. But then again, he never celebrated his birthdays to begin with, so there wasn’t ever a need. Ghost didn’t do parties like the others did. Didn’t want cake and beer and junk food and to relax. Ghost worked on his birthdays. It wasn’t a special day to him. It was just another Tuesday or Friday. Still though, he respected Spades for not spending lavish amounts of money on him like she did the others. It wasn’t worth it; he wasn’t worth it.

It does surprise him however, to see her at his door when he opens it at six, already awake before then, but he’d finished paperwork in the meantime.

She smiles calmly, eyes a telling tale she has something planned. “Good morning, Simon,” she greets. “I do believe a Happy Birthday is in order for our resident phantom.”

He grunts in response and waits for her to move—she doesn’t.

“Price has already cleared us for leave today and I’ve something for you. Would you mind accompanying me?”

Now he’s curious, suspicious, but more so curious. “I don’t have a choice, do I?”

“You always do, Simon,” she replies with a tut. “But I would enjoy your presence if you came along. It is a gift for you.”

Ghost lets out a sigh, but motions for her to lead and she does, to the garage where he climbs in the SUV with her and allows her to take him. “Where are we going?” he asks, but the signs on the road are familiar enough that he already knows.

“Manchester. There’s something waiting for us.”

It’s all she says, and the rest of the ride is filled with silence until they pull into the parking lot of The University of Manchester and begin walking across campus.

“Please don’t tell me I’m attending a college class,” he mutters, and she lets out a laugh.

“Oh, indeed we are. A course on morals and how ambiguous they can be during war.” She gives him a look and gestures for him to follow.

There’s a woman standing there outside the doors, and she smiles as the two approach. “Miss Christensen it’s so wonderful to see you.”

Christensen, Spades fake surname she uses, he recognizes.

“It’s wonderful to see you, Mary.” She introduces Ghost. “This is a friend of mine, he’s accompanying me today. His name is Michael.”

Ghost’s lip curls in disgust at the name but he shakes her hand and allows them to lead, wondering what on earth is at the university for him.

Mary leads them into an office, and they sit across from one another; he feels awkward in the confined room, but relaxes as Spades’ hand rests on his forearm. “So,” she starts, “To what do I owe the pleasure of this visit, Miss Christensen?”

Spades smiles. “Michael and I were both intrigued on perhaps obtaining more degrees. We came to check out the potential majors and more importantly, the scholarships we could apply for.”

“Oh yes!” Mary chirps and pulls out a folder that Ghost wonders if she has pre-made for visits like these. “We have quite a few. Old ones that have been around for years, and our newest ones that have been in circulation for the last few years.”

“I heard you had a particular new one that showed up. Would you explain that one?”

“Ah, yes, our newer scholarship started by a rather mysterious sponsor.” She pulls out a packet. “The Joseph Riley Foundation.”

Ghost all but freezes at the mention of a name he hasn’t heard in years.

“Our sponsor created the foundation in memory of a young boy who was sadly killed many years ago. His name was Joseph Riley. Grew up right here in Manchester. From what our sponsor told us, he loved jets and wanted to fly one in the army.” She smiles, but it’s full of sadness. “It’s unfortunate he never got to experience it. Still though, his memory lives on here.” She hands the packet to them, and Spades simply gives it to Ghost to look over. “This scholarship works hand in hand with the British Special Air Services, or SAS, and gives students the opportunity to have a job in the SAS when they graduate. As long as they meet the required terms, they join as an officer with a bonus if they graduate above a three grade point average.”

“Specifically, what does the scholarship provide? Is it entitled to specific degree?”

“Indeed. Aviation degrees, specifically those in aviation engineering and maintenance, aeronautical science, and physics.” She seems rather pleased with herself that she knows so much. “Our sponsor supplies endless funds and expertise along with it for this scholarship, it’s perhaps become one of our most coveted scholarships simply because it’s extremely beneficial to the education. Most of our students in those majors have this.”

Spades is content to listen as she rattles on about it, but Ghost is still stuck on the pages of the history of the scholarship, and a photo of a small boy with a face that looks too familiar.

***

By the time the entire tour is done, Ghost is as mentally drained as Spades looks and she bids farewell to Mary as she escorts the two to their vehicle and waves them goodbye as they pull out of the parking lot.

Spades says nothing, content to stay in silence, but Ghost feels like he has to say something, even if he isn’t even sure what to say.

“Why.”

A snort escapes her. “Because typical birthday gifts aren’t your cup of tea.”

“I haven’t thought about Joey in years,” he murmurs, staring out the window. “I can’t bear to.”

“Yes, I imagine it’s not a pleasant memory…the end, at least. He was just a babe, wasn’t he?”

“Five,” Ghost says quietly. “He…had just turned five.”

She sighs deeply but doesn’t offer Ghost the pitied, “Such a horrid shame,” he’s heard before.

“You come here every year on my birthday?”

“Mhm,” she responds. “I visit the science building and interview the students who’ve obtained the scholarship. Make sure it’s being put to good use. And then I cash a very generous multi-million-dollar check to the school for the foundation. Keeps it thriving and sought after.”

Ghost has never kept the memory of his family alive. It died with him that Christmas Eve as the only surviving Riley. But something aches deep in his chest as he imagines his nephew fresh out of basic, ready to travel and be a pilot for the jets he so loved playing with as a babe. He swallows thickly and looks out the window as Manchester fades away. “Thank you, Spades.”

“Happy Birthday, Simon,” she replies instead and turns on the radio, a catchy pop song drowning out the ache in his chest. “I do have one more gift, if you’ll let me spoil you a little.”

Ghost lets out a groan, already drained far too emotionally to do this again. “You know I don’t do gifts.”

“Hush,” she tuts with a disapproving click of her tongue and commands, “Reach behind your seat.”

He does as she says and reaches back and down, grasping what feels like a box; Ghost pulls it to his lap and stares at it. “What is it?”

“Well, perhaps if you open it?”

He ignores the sarcastic jab and carefully removes the tape around the box and opens it. Inside is a smaller box, about twelve inches and he pulls it out, tosses the first box into the backseat, and opens the second. His eyes widen as he stares at the blade resting in the velvet.

“…Wow…” he manages to mutter, and she smirks at the wheel.

“Pretty, isn’t it?”

“Indeed, she’s lovely,” he says, taking the knife out to admire it.

“She’s one of a kind too. Made by an old Blackfeet man in the mountains of Montana. One of the best blades men for diamond knives there is.” She reaches over and touches the hilt. “It’s made from a buffalo and carved with protection symbols.”

Ghost twists the knife in his grip, handling it like any other. “It’s just for show, isn’t it?”

“Oh no, sweetheart,” she says. “That knife is one hundred percent battle ready.” Her expression changes. “I had thought about an obsidian blade. Wanted to make a joke about having a knife as black as your heart, but then I figured why waste it when I can get you a knife I know you’ll use. Hence, the diamond knife.”

“It’s really made of diamonds?”

“Indeed. One of the strongest knives you’ll ever find on the face of this earth. It’ll make for quick work of jugulars and aortas.”

Ghost is seemingly satisfied as he stows the knife in the hide sheath and tucks it into his jacket; and she can feel the smirk he has on his face, knowing he’s itching to use it.

“Happy Birthday, Ghost.”

386 notes · View notes

maximumwobblerbanditdonut · 6 months ago

Text

Cigar & Spirits Magazine 2020

[http://www.cigaraficionado.com]

The author of this article Executive Editor, of Cigar Aficionado Magazine is still talking about the Keepers of the Quaich event, in Manhattan on October 4, 2023. at New York's Metropolitan Club. It's time to secure returns, of this visit while he can or what?

SH loved cigars for about six years. What a coincidence, the timing of his relationship with Alex, his cigar-smoking business partner of Persian (Iranian) descent, the person SH prefers to spend time with. It appears SH have learned from AN how to smoke cigars. Cheap cigars come in handy.

Really! SH at No.6 Cavendish, London's Finest Cigar Shop with the largest selection of Cuban and New World cigars in the UK 🇬🇧 We have not seen him shopping at number 6 Cavendish in London or smoking anything.

El Rey Del Mundo La Reina UK Regional 2018 £280.00

This light-to-medium cigars format Lancero from the El Laguito factory, home of Cohiba, demands to be sipped rather than swallowed by a patient smoker one thing that SH is certainly not.

SH loves cigar Arturo Fuente Opus x Perfection No.5 – Single Cigar £29.68

Made by Tabacalera A. Fuente, home to the finest cigar, the coveted Fuente Fuente OpusX. Nestled in the volcanic soil of the Dominican Republic. This cigar is consistently ranked as the single most sought-after cigar in the world by Cigar Aficionado and the line is held by many to be the greatest cigar in history to date. The cigars are rare and can be difficult to obtain.

It seems the author of this article exaggerated SH's importance as a new cigar aficionado. SH only seems to boast about superficial bits of cigar brand knowledge. He needs to know when cutting, lighting and smoking his favourite cigar first.

This is a surprise 😮 SH has changed again the number of years of his grain whisky. Because his whisky is classified as NAS - No Age Statement (simply his whisky has no specified age) All Scotch whisky, by law, must be at least three years and a day old. Indeed, it cannot be called whisky before this date under the 2009 Scotch Whisky Regulations. It's a blended scotch, with a mixture of malt and grain whisky but there’s no reference to the source of the spirit. There's really no transparency at all, unlike many of the new whisky brands that have launched in the last years.

Posted 19th July 2024

9 notes · View notes