A HOSEMASTER OF WINE™ PULP FICTION CLASSIC
CHAPTER ONE Red Beaune
I’m a dick. I think it’s safe to say I’m considered the most famous dick in the wine business. I wasn’t always a dick. I’d begun my wine career as a sommelier, but, really, that’s dick-adjacent. Eventually, I became a private dick. Which was hard. Spending your life bearing witness to the seedy and corrupt, the constant exposure to the dark and evil side of human nature, days spent in the company of avarice and prevarication—hey, you try dealing with winery sales reps. I fled that sommelier life for the life of a dick, a private dick in wine country—far less corruption. You’ve probably heard of me. I’m the HoseMaster.
The wine business sells romance, like a high-end hooker. Give me a hundred bucks and I’ll show you a good time. You get to attach your own fantasy to the transaction. The fantasy that you’re drinking the product of vines lovingly tended, vines that convert the caressing rays and warmth of the sun to fruit, fruit gently harvested and coaxed into liquid seduction. The fantasy of a wealthy jackass realizing his dream to use his immoral acquisition of money to live off the land, grow grapes, and feel good about himself because he produces a $175 bottle of pedestrian Cabernet. The romance that a wine was created untouched, unsullied by the intervention of man, intended by God to deliver us pleasure as proof that He loves us. It’s hogwash, romantic hogwash, but hogwash. God doesn’t love us. He made us in His image because He loves Himself. God was the first winemaker and the first critic. We’re all rated on the Cosmic Hundred Point Scale. We get fifty points for just being born. And if your score isn’t more than 85, we don’t talk about you. You’re failure personified. Less than that and we wish you were dead.