Stan the Wine Man
Sipping the wine ever so gently, the well dressed man, by the name of Stan, thoroughly enjoyed a vintage Merlot. Alone in his well designed basement that he affectionately called “The Piss Shelter”. Stan lived alone – no wife, girlfriend or even cat to call his own. His house, above the ground, was quite nice. It had pretty curtains and decent sized rooms, but Stan did not spend much time in the above-ground section of his property. What Stan did most of the time, was sip, stir and stomp. Sipping his homemade wines, stirring his after-alcohol espresso, and stomping hundreds of thousands of different varieties and variations of grape. Red grapes. White grapes. Green grapes. Even Stan’s very own invention, Orange Grapes.
This underground alcohol factory that Stan liked to call home, was outfitted with all the modern day furnishings and technology that one would expect to find in any average house. Televisions, computers, a dartboard, couches, a big comfy bed and so on and so forth. If Stan wanted to, he could no doubt entice any woman on Earth to be his lover. With a dwelling like the “Piss Shelter”, any lady would be crazy to say no. But Stan wasn’t much of a ladies man, instead he was, to his core, a grapey man.
One morning, some time in April, Stan woke up, in his Piss Shelter, of course. He began the process of making a pre-grape stomping coffee, and attempted to turn on his enormous television to see what was going on in the world, the world that he hadn’t seen properly for quite some time. The television, strangely, didn’t turn on. In fact, nothing in his Piss Shelter was working. Not one single piece of technology within the 10 meter radius would work. Stan was perplexed, but not worried. He thought nothing of it, for the initial few moments.
Continuing to make his morning coffee, removal of the kettle from the heat was a key feature that Stan was in no mood to challenge. He began pouring the boiling water into his cup, when he suddenly caught a horrifying glimpse of his disgusting, pasty white skin. His brilliant, chrome kettle was showing him a near perfect reflection of his ghostly white face. Something within Stan began to stir. That one glimpse of his sun-starved skin was enough to compel him to finally set foot outside into the real world for the first time in what must have been several months.
Pulling on his bathrobe, Stan ventured up his basement stairs. As he cranked the clunky steel hatch open, he was surprised not to hear the hustle and bustle of the traffic above ground that he always heard in the early mornings. Feeling increasingly restless, Stan wrestled the hatch open with the ferocity and strength that you’d expect from a wine connoisseur who lived alone. Upon poking his balding head up and out into his house, he could not believe his eyes. Nor his nostrils, nor his ears. This was a man who had very little faith in his sense-organs, but he instantly knew that something disastrous had happened. Something unprecedented and catastrophic the likes of which the world had never witnessed before. Something that only a bottle or two of “Stan’s Orange Grape wine” could take the edge off of.
Part Two coming soon.