You finish it

[Whalehead King]

Awright, this one is too ridiculous even for me. I've given up at this point. Anybody else want to take a stab at bringing this setup to a conclusion?

Dames are like pipes, you have to love them. When you find a good pipe you never want to let it go. It’s the same way with a good woman.

I was chasing a shot of bourbon on Burgundy Street in New Orleans when a lady who looked like Luck walked through the door smoking a deer tongue blend. Her legs started at the floor and went all the way up. What was on top wasn’t bad, either. She was smoking a rusticated Savinelli churchwarden, holding the bowl in her left hand. My eyes followed the stem’s curve up to her lips and I felt like I needed a kiss. Anticipation makes the best sauce.

When she walked in, the smell of stale cigarettes and spilled beer disappeared. When she walked in, it was like Bing Crosby and the Andrew Sisters were about to put on a show. Everybody noticed. Every head turned. The band changed their set list to match the room note. The only thing in the room that didn’t smile was the jackalope head mounted over the mirror behind the bar.

I took my Falcon out of my pocket and packed it with Frog Morton on the Bayou. “You wouldn’t happen to have a light?” I asked the lady smoking the deer tongue blend. She handed me a Zippo with a pipe insert. “Spark it up,” she suggested.

I did a false light, waited, tamped, and then I relit. “You seem to know how to manage a tight bowl,” the lady said. She looked right into my eyes, then she looked at my Falcon. “Do you mind if I touch it?” she asked reaching out her right hand.

[Bob]

I can't, my version would be XXX rated!

[mike68]

"There's plenty of parts of me you CAN touch, but you touch my pipe and you might pull back a bloody stump!!!!...

Naw - just kidding, wanna do the horizontal mambo?"

Sent from my Nexus 7 using Tapatalk 2

[blueview]

Awright, this one is too ridiculous even for me. I've given up at this point. Anybody else want to take a stab at bringing this setup to a conclusion?

Dames are like pipes, you have to love them. When you find a good pipe you never want to let it go. It’s the same way with a good woman.

I was chasing a shot of bourbon on Burgundy Street in New Orleans when a lady who looked like Luck walked through the door smoking a deer tongue blend. Her legs started at the floor and went all the way up. What was on top wasn’t bad, either. She was smoking a rusticated Savinelli churchwarden, holding the bowl in her left hand. My eyes followed the stem’s curve up to her lips and I felt like I needed a kiss. Anticipation makes the best sauce.

When she walked in, the smell of stale cigarettes and spilled beer disappeared. When she walked in, it was like Bing Crosby and the Andrew Sisters were about to put on a show. Everybody noticed. Every head turned. The band changed their set list to match the room note. The only thing in the room that didn’t smile was the jackalope head mounted over the mirror behind the bar.

I took my Falcon out of my pocket and packed it with Frog Morton on the Bayou. “You wouldn’t happen to have a light?” I asked the lady smoking the deer tongue blend. She handed me a Zippo with a pipe insert. “Spark it up,” she suggested.

I did a false light, waited, tamped, and then I relit. “You seem to know how to manage a tight bowl,” the lady said. She looked right into my eyes, then she looked at my Falcon. “Do you mind if I touch it?” she asked reaching out her right hand.

She fondled my Falcon with her slim nicotine stained fingers. "It's very warm', she said. "Maybe you should let it rest for a bit". "Why don't we find a quieter place", I suggested. She said, "My ride is just outside. Let's go". "What kind of ride is it"? I asked. "It's a Volvo V70" she demurred. "Why don't you drive it". "I would like nothing more than to drive your Volvo hard and fast", I panted.

[Markw4mms]

nicethread.gif............

[WVDAVE]

She looked right into my eyes, then she looked at my Falcon. “Do you mind if I touch it?” she asked reaching out her right hand.[/I]

I leaned in to her and with great regret uttered "No I don't mind, but see that big ass bitch smoking the stoogie behind me? That's my wife and she would."

[HCraven]

...I wasn't sure what to say. My Falcon was my best friend when I was out and about, especially while trolling at the local watering holes. It was my wing man, grabbing the attention of ladies otherwise innocent in the way of the pipe, serving as a conversation starter (even when the conversation began with, "Why are you sucking on that muffler?") and letting my natural charm take it from there. This grande dame, however, obviously knew a thing or two about smoking. I handed over the pipe.

The way she pursed her ruby lips as she drew the first of my Frog from the nylon bit told me which of us she was truly interested in. I attempted to make some small talk. I played dumb and asked what she was smoking, as if I didn't recognize Cornell & Diehl's Crooner from my first whiff of it. "My pipe", she replied, as though I were just another ignorant punter, never mind that she was smoking my pipe.

I could see that this was going nowhere, but stopped short of asking for the return of the Falcon. It had quietly stood by on many occasions past when I was the one leaving with the lovely lady. Who was I to deny it a turn? I turned my back for a moment to sip my beer and scrawl my name and address on the damp napkin it sat upon so that she might return the pipe once she'd had her fun, but when I looked back over my shoulder, she had already sunk into the crowd around the bar, the aroma of Latakia cutting a clear path through the mob on her way to the door. Her spent churchwarden lay exhausted on the bar, a few whisps of smoke rising from the grey ash within.

I posted an ad for a lost and found churchwarden on craigslist roughly a week after the fact, hoping to get another chance to impress My Lady Nicotine, or at least to learn of the whereabouts of my trusty Falcon. A few days later, a smallish manilla envelope arrived in the mail with about an ounce of the finest Perique from St. James Parish, but nothing more.

[Whalehead King]

A 5-Star Whale/Sunbeam Sign co-production based on a screenplay by H. Craven and M. King. Optioned to be made into a minor motion picture. You saw it here first, folks.....


I was chasing a shot of bourbon on Burgundy Street in New Orleans when a lady who looked like she had had enjoyed her share of luck walked through the door smoking a deer tongue blend. Her legs started at the floor and went all the way up. What was on top wasn’t bad, either.

She was smoking a polished Savinelli churchwarden, holding the bowl in her left hand at the level where I was staring. My eyes followed the stem’s curve up to her lips and I felt like I needed a kiss. Anticipation makes the best sauce. It wasn’t bourbon or nicotine that was making me light-headed.

When she walked in, the smell of stale cigarettes and spilled beer disappeared. If we were at the Stork Club in 1948, I would have expected Bing Crosby and the Andrews Sisters to walk on stage and everybody would swing, swing, swing. We were in a Burgundy Street dive in 2011, and it was packed with paralegals in town to attend their annual convention.

When this lady walked in smoking her pipe, everybody noticed. Every head turned. The band changed their set list to match the room note. They played “You Belong to Me” with a cool, danceable beat full of improvised solos. The only face in the room that didn’t smile was the jackalope head mounted over the mirror behind the bar.

I took my Falcon out of my pocket and packed it with Frog Morton on the Bayou. “You wouldn’t happen to have a light?” I asked the lady smoking the deer tongue blend. She handed me a Zippo with a pipe insert. “Spark it up,” she suggested.

I did a false light, waited, tamped, and then I relit. “You seem to know how to manage a tight bowl,” the lady said. She looked right into my eyes, then she looked at my Falcon. “Do you mind if I touch it?” she asked reaching out her right hand.

I wasn't sure how to answer.

When I am out and about, my Falcon is my best friend, especially while trawling local watering holes. My pipe is my wing man, grabbing the attention of ladies otherwise innocent in the way of the pipe. It serves as a conversation starter, even when the conversation begins with, "Why are you sucking on that muffler?" After the Falcon captures a lady’s eye, I let my natural charm take things to the next topic of conversation and let the evening unwind where it will. This lady, however, obviously knew a thing or two about smoking. She wanted to clench my pipe in her mouth. I handed over the pipe.

The way she pursed her ruby lips as she drew that first puff of Frog Morton from the nylon bit told me which of us she was truly interested in. Any pipe smoker can recognize a fellow traveller when they meet one. This lady knew how to smoke a pipe like she meant it. This lady was a natural Falconeer.

I attempted to make some small talk. I played dumb and asked what she was smoking, as if I didn't recognize Cornell & Diehl's Crooner from my first whiff of it.

She looked at me through half-lidded blue eyes as she exhaled. "I’m smoking my pipe", she replied, and her words unfurled in a stream that smelled as good as it sounded. The way she said it ignored the fact that she was smoking my pipe. I didn’t suspect that she meant it. I was holding her churchwarden while she was making time with my Falcon. She flicked her fingertip against the dental bit. “That’s a nice tip,” she remarked.

I could see that this was going nowhere, but stopped short of asking for the return of my Falcon. It had quietly stood by on many past occasions when I was the one leaving with the lovely lady and the lady would ask, “Is that your Falcon in your pocket?” and I would have to admit it was not. Who was I to deny my inanimate wing man a turn?

I turned my back for a moment to sip my beer and scrawl my name and address on the damp napkin it sat on. I expected her to return the pipe once she'd had her fun. When I was finished practicing my penmanship, I looked back over my shoulder. She had already sunk into the crowd around the bar, the aroma of Latakia cutting a clear path through the mob on her way to the door. Her spent churchwarden lay exhausted on the bar, a few wisps of smoke rising from the grey ash within. Most nights don’t end with a broken heart as much as they end with an exhausted one. Still, I remember the myth of the phoenix. I have learned how to coax a few final rich puffs out of ash that can satisfy more than the beginning of a smoke.

I posted an ad for a lost and found churchwarden on craigslist roughly a week after the fact, hoping to get another chance to impress that lucky lady who pinched my Falcon, or at least to learn the whereabouts of my once-trusty companion.

A few days later, a smallish manilla envelope arrived in the mail with about an ounce of the finest Perique from St. James Parish. There wasn’t a return address, only a ruby red impression of two lips. I wish my old Falcon well. I keep the churchwarden in my pipe rack. I packed it with the Perique and it bit me. It bit hard.

[HCraven]

Thanks for your vote of confidence, WK. It's nice to see a thread like this come to a fruitful conclusion, and I'm glad I could help to realize the potential of this story.

[WVDAVE]

Very good work guys.