Waxy Winged Shape Shifters are creatures of the occult peculiar to wine country. They are reputed to have their genesis in the vineyards of eastern Europe, but have been a scourge up and down the left coast for some time now. It is said that they insinuate themselves into the psyches of their victims with piercing snake-like tongues, and slowly, relentlessly drain one’s will and life essence like it was some late harvest sauvignon plonk. Little is known about their true appearance, because as their name implies it changes all the time. The one consistent feature that has been repeatedly reported is their wings, which have a wax-like look not unlike the face of a corpse in a casket laid out for viewing after being treated by the local taxidermist. That Bree was in the grasp of such phantoms was of critical concern, especially since he had the keys to his wine cellar in his pocket when he was dragged off.

The Wine Bubbas are an in-the-know group of online aficionados who specialize in answering questions for the more idiosyncratic oenological persuasion. Want to know the very best vintages of the Pride of the Wrong Coast, Super Codder?

Ask the Wine Bubbas.

Want to know how to pull a cork with only a paper clip and a toothpick?

Ask the Wine Bubbas.

And in my desperation, that’s exactly what I did. Normally, they answer most questions by means of a bulletin board that is a flagrant take off on the Wine Snobs’ Diatribe and Dissing Forum, since the format was really free to anyone who wants to download it off the internet. But for the more personal problem and/or emergency, they maintain a 24-hour telephone hotline, and this was my only hope in resolving the grave dilemma at hand. What’s more, there was a distinct possibility that I might be virtually acquainted with some of these people, since I’d been around the web a time or two. I located their number and placed my call.

"Hi, this is Ask the Wine Bubbas, what is your question?"

"Is this Josh," I asked, recognizing the voice on the other end of the line.

There was a moment’s silence, and then he replied, "That’s not a wine related question. Please make your question wine related, or I’ll have to disconnect you."

"Don’t hang up," I implored, "this is Bastardo and it’s a matter life and death!"

"BASTARDO, you old sac of puss and vinegar, how the heck are the grape vines hangin’?"

"Not so good, Josh. Bree’s in a pickle, and I don’ mean oak and dill. You gotta help me, you’re my only hope!"

"Well sure geo, no hey problema." Then, lowering his voice a little, he continued, "But I’m going by Josh/Not Josh now. Spit happens and I’m just not the same guy I used to be."

"Whatever man, but the Waxy Winged Shape Shifters just grabbed Bree and dragged him off, and my glass is empty!"

"So in other words, you can’t get into his cellar?"

"Exactamundo," I blurted.

"Ouch," cried Josh/not Josh. "Not good. This is way out of my league. You need Reverend Henry, who is our Rasta-Religio-Hoo-Doo-Guru, and just happens to be on the road somewhere in your general vicinity. I’ll beep him and let him know the low down to see if he can help. But just so you know, I once heard him say that you have to sprinkle these shape shifting scum with fresh thyme, which sends them into a whole new dimension, whatever THAT means."

"Ooohhh-kaaay," I replied with some confusion and disbelief.

"Just hang loose as long as you can and one of us will get back to you real soon," he reassured me.

I hung up the phone, downcast and disillusioned. I thought these guys were supposed to know they’re stuff, but the fact of the matter was that I probably wouldn’t get another glass of wine for the rest of the evening, and poor Bree was getting his brains sucked out by some sinister twisted mystics. Nevertheless, I weaseled out the side door, keeping a close eye out for marauding morph-meisters, and decimated all the little trees of thyme in Bree’s herb garden. Then, I ran back into the house, locking myself in, and chopped my desperate harvest into sprinkle-mode.

Twenty minutes later, Reverend Henry pulled up to the front door.

More later...
B

P R E V I O U S  |  H O M E  |  N E X T