"That moment it hit your lips. That splash of comfort mixed with exhilaration for what might or might not follow. From the dirty concoctions in the shitty dens throughout the country. To the high priced, high end, top shelf bottles just calling out to you with their exclusivity, waving their labels at you, grabbing at your inner demons. Toying with you. That's what it's all about."

He lifted the shot glass to his lips. The smirk was wide, from ear to ear. His eyes, glassy. You could almost see yourself in them if it weren't for the blue of his large dilated pupils. He paused, holding it up with a little more effort than you'd expect after your first. It was his fifth.

Some knew more than others. And not because of reading a book or sitting through classes. Life was its own teacher. It spoke to you through trials and tribulations. Through the hard earned, hard knocks. And when it came to whisky, you just had to live it. You couldn't just look at a label and judge it. You couldn't hear someone else speak on it. You had to roll back your sleeves, and slam it down. And Adonis did just that.

The liquid soothed and burned at the same time as it traveled down his throat. The remnants remained on his lips, a little surprise after the fact, when the tongue flicked over them. A little something to savor, after the initial savoring. Because it was all good. The whole experience and he let it take him away as he slumped back in the chair.

The glass hit the table. His laughter and smirk played to an inner tune. The warmth he felt, the slight delirium that was experienced as a sense of freedom. It had him. It had him before the liquid even filled the clean glass first time. Or the sticky glass the last. And as it was steadily poured once more by Ray Divine, it kept him. No matter the bruises. The pain and suffering. The faces at funerals that came, and went, with a numbing repetitiveness. This was who, what, he sought out, day after day.

His laughter continued as his eyelids drooped and his hand zigzagged towards the glass. His motor neurons were failing. But unlike a car wreck, he was alive. In his mind, if anything. But in a way, he was more present than ever. The blurred reality around him didn't matter. It was just a canvas to the unfolding of his artistry. And the paint, the thing that gave this moment an existence, was Stobart's Finest Blended Whisky.

His off-hand rubbed slowly at his face as he finally gripped the glass. The piano playing in the background mixing with the Philly blend, taking his soul to heights he otherwise didn't get to. Like a ladder to the heavens, each shot, a rung. Each taste, a reaching hand. The caramel. The vanilla and nutty finish. It lingered longer than a pimp when you didn't pay his worker.

His hand swiped through his hair. The silky feeling under his fingertips. The nerve endings on his scalp being caressed, hitting all the right notes. Shivers down his spine. A divine smile tantalizing his soul from the tail bone to his crown. Ecstasy. Self-induced pleasures no broad could tug out of him.

The swaying to the sounds of the piano spilled some of the liquor onto the table and his index and forefinger. But it didn't matter. He was in the zone. In the moment. He was in some ways, in love. As it brought him here, to the now. The sweet nectar of the Gods. The reason he could endure so much death, so much of the life. And as he shot down the last he'd have that night, he tasted it once more. But not just on his lips or what danced on his taste-buds with clouds a shoes.

Adonis let it fill his entire being. His entire experience, His head, hitting the table in front of him. Unconscious. But that was what it was about. You took the good, with the bad. And right now, it felt so damn good to be bad. Whisky, it wasn't just a word. It was a lifestyle. It was Stobart's Finest.