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While navigating Hopper Creek in the backwoods of Yountville, grappling over mosses, rocks and entwining ivies and vines, I came upon something shiny buried in the mud. Thinking it was a bit of brown glass from an old Shlitz bottle, I almost passed it by, but something made me bend down to it, as it caught a small ray of sunlight in a comely golden fashion. Trying to pull it up, I soon unearthed the placid face of a straining Indian- then a rusted out and mildewed Pontiac sedan that had obviously been used to run moonshine from the hills to the city during prohibition. I knew this because inside the decaying chassis, still clutched by the skeletal hand of the speeding hooch runner was a large glass jug crudely marked with the name “Hattie’s Old Crow Hooch”. After several minutes of detatching the jug from the bony hand and from a clutser of shimmering purple mushrooms that were growing both around and inside the lip of the jug, I immediately drank half its contents without any thought. From here my memory gets very cloudy, but of one thing I am clear. The Indian spoke to me, revealing exactly 29 and a half aphorisms, in a creaky voice somewhere between Tommy lee Jones and and the old heater that was in my college dorm room. I can also say that these seem all true, though some are strangely syntaxed. Thanks to the Great Spirits, and I will be sharing them with you soon.
The hooch tasted of liquified Ben-Gay and old Gefilte Fish. Fernet basically. Perhaps you will doubt that the Indian spoke to me, but truth is truth, no? (As for the last half of the Hooch, I gave to Thomas Keller who who put on digestif menu of French Laundry, 500.00$ for a thimblefull)- Zamboni