Austinoir
The luckiest guy in Shawshank
Manufacturer: K. Hansotia & Co (Ghurka)
MSRP: $1.79
Country: Dominican Republic
Wrapper: Ecuadorian Connecticut
Binder: Ecuadorian/Indonesian
Filler: DominicanSize: 5.0 " x 52
Strength: Mild-Medium
Shape: Robusto
Prelight: The K. Hansotia Prizefighter robusto is a handmade cigar utilizes a beautiful Connecticut/Ecuadorian Shade wrapper that has a great cocoa colored hue with a small oily sheen which pairs perfectly with an Ecuadorian/Indonesian binder and a three year aged Dominican filler to complete the ensemble. The result is a smooth, mild-bodied smoke that is complete with notes of cocoa, cedar, moss and raisins. The smell is deeply strong with the flavors mentioned before which should make for an excellent flavor profile. Interestingly, this was the last one on the shelf, priced right and I had smoked it before (also did a post on how bad it was). So, why go back, a confluence of factors, out of smokes, looking for a cheap stick and it was the last one left on the shelf (dog rockets and mutt missiles seem to cry out to me as Newb of the Dog Rockets)
1/3: I had picked up some Private detective work on the side (economy and I was good at it). A curvy redhead to kill for had asked me to find her fiancé, a prizefighter, who had a title shot, but had gone MIA. Normally, I'd have passed on a missing persons cases, but I need the dough and she was a once in a life time beauty-a real femme fatale. Never a good decision for a gum-shoe to think with the wrong head. I found her guy, a supposed talented fighter named D. “Rocket” Ghurka (never heard of him). I fished him out of a less than respectable B&M, that I'd frequented during a rough patch (the bad old days). I picked him up and got him to the big fight just in time. The rest was not for the weak of stomach. The fight started and the initial draw wasn't anything to write home about, the kid flashed some creamy moves, but as the rounds wore on I could see he was more flash than substance. It's just an instinct, (I know a bum when I see one-I got a nose for it) but he had no punch-deadly for a fighter. The tip was hard to get my lips around, strange for a 52 gauge (a bad sign). There was a twinge of pepper in the kid's punch, but that was the only highlight and it was going to be a long fight. The draw was way too easy (another sign that the guy is built like Tarzan, but smokes like Jane). Then , I saw it. The kid was chugging and gulping air from a lose draw (again not a good sign). There was no sign of the flavor profile that was mentioned. My quick assessment, this was a stiff on two legs.
2/3: The foot(work) starts to canoe and burn unevenly, but exude great smoke. During the rounds, I study him. I take a gulp of water, watching this massacre causes me to have cotton-mouth. [back when I practiced the sweet science, I was warned by a veteran to always hydrate, so that when I smoked it didn't through off the Rh in my mouth by being dehydrated]. The stick corrects after 2-3 draws, but I see it again, the gulping of air and smoke from a lose draw. Woodsy flashes of flavor returns to the kid's punches, but too smooth. Ash is looking gnarly. I think he might limp through the mid rounds and hold on for at least a decision. Wrong, like a bad dream the bottom falls out and WHACK the prizefighter has nothing left in the tank. The flavor disappears, goes MIA and I'm scared for the kid. Ash is too flaky and blows off like a cheap cigarette. My mouth goes fully dry and I swig water like I'm in the Sahara The kid is taking a beating against the ropes and is washed over by an attack of cedar. Nothing but, cedar-it's downright brutal. I know what he's thinking. It's what I use to think “I can hang on. I can do this, but I'm so tired...and my mouth is as dry as the Sahara!”
3/3: I rush to his corner and beg his manager to stop the fight, but he doesn't listen...the kid was his ticket to the big time. Then, I see it. I don't remember what I was thinking, maybe it was that I had wished someone had done the same for me. With all the cedar gushing out, the kid was a mess. The crowd was a fever pitch, because tonight they wanted to see a death in the ring and they would not be denied. But, as the gentle cotton towel fell dead center in the middle of the ring the referee, who had also been paralyzed and didn't see that the kid was out on his feet, heading to that great match in the sky, suddenly came to and mercifully stopped the fight. There was a lot of ballyhoo about it after the match, but those who witnessed it said that “I had grabbed the white towel off of the shoulder of the schlep of a manager and had tossed it into the ring”. I vaguely remember a sliver of a memory which echoed I couldn't be party to this public murder. During the confusion, I disappeared into the crowd, but I could see the kid had dropped like a flicked bad tasting cigar butt into the gutter. Luckily, during the commotion I was just another guy. The papers said it was the damnedest thing they'd seen in a minute...sadly the Prizefight didn't make it. I went back to my life and treated the Kid Gurkha incident like a bad dream.
Overall:
Overall, I can't help but think that the Prizefighter was a victim, not of my former B&M's crappy humidor, or the vicious cigar industry wanting the latest and greatest, which instead of cultivating great smokes, offer puffed up contenders, as so much grist for the mill, but sadly it was a garbage of a smoke to begin with. I had seen it before, all the promise of diverse flavors wrapped up in a pretty package, but ultimately just another bum smoke in a world of bum smokes. I saw myself in the kid, wanting to be a contender, and with enough breaks, maybe even a champion. But, between a scrawny kid in a boxing gym lacing up the gloves for the first time and being carried out of the ring a champion is REALITY...and reality can be a bitter fickle bitch. Ask, me I've lived it...those who still remember me back then, now call me “Newb of the Dog Rockets” behind my back on the forums and at the local B&M. Yeah, it stings, but it's my life.
On dark and stormy nights like this, I think about the redhead with curves to kill for, the Prizefighter and the Sahara. I say a prayer for the kid, pine for the redhead and consider myself lucky.
MSRP: $1.79
Country: Dominican Republic
Wrapper: Ecuadorian Connecticut
Binder: Ecuadorian/Indonesian
Filler: DominicanSize: 5.0 " x 52
Strength: Mild-Medium
Shape: Robusto
Prelight: The K. Hansotia Prizefighter robusto is a handmade cigar utilizes a beautiful Connecticut/Ecuadorian Shade wrapper that has a great cocoa colored hue with a small oily sheen which pairs perfectly with an Ecuadorian/Indonesian binder and a three year aged Dominican filler to complete the ensemble. The result is a smooth, mild-bodied smoke that is complete with notes of cocoa, cedar, moss and raisins. The smell is deeply strong with the flavors mentioned before which should make for an excellent flavor profile. Interestingly, this was the last one on the shelf, priced right and I had smoked it before (also did a post on how bad it was). So, why go back, a confluence of factors, out of smokes, looking for a cheap stick and it was the last one left on the shelf (dog rockets and mutt missiles seem to cry out to me as Newb of the Dog Rockets)
1/3: I had picked up some Private detective work on the side (economy and I was good at it). A curvy redhead to kill for had asked me to find her fiancé, a prizefighter, who had a title shot, but had gone MIA. Normally, I'd have passed on a missing persons cases, but I need the dough and she was a once in a life time beauty-a real femme fatale. Never a good decision for a gum-shoe to think with the wrong head. I found her guy, a supposed talented fighter named D. “Rocket” Ghurka (never heard of him). I fished him out of a less than respectable B&M, that I'd frequented during a rough patch (the bad old days). I picked him up and got him to the big fight just in time. The rest was not for the weak of stomach. The fight started and the initial draw wasn't anything to write home about, the kid flashed some creamy moves, but as the rounds wore on I could see he was more flash than substance. It's just an instinct, (I know a bum when I see one-I got a nose for it) but he had no punch-deadly for a fighter. The tip was hard to get my lips around, strange for a 52 gauge (a bad sign). There was a twinge of pepper in the kid's punch, but that was the only highlight and it was going to be a long fight. The draw was way too easy (another sign that the guy is built like Tarzan, but smokes like Jane). Then , I saw it. The kid was chugging and gulping air from a lose draw (again not a good sign). There was no sign of the flavor profile that was mentioned. My quick assessment, this was a stiff on two legs.
2/3: The foot(work) starts to canoe and burn unevenly, but exude great smoke. During the rounds, I study him. I take a gulp of water, watching this massacre causes me to have cotton-mouth. [back when I practiced the sweet science, I was warned by a veteran to always hydrate, so that when I smoked it didn't through off the Rh in my mouth by being dehydrated]. The stick corrects after 2-3 draws, but I see it again, the gulping of air and smoke from a lose draw. Woodsy flashes of flavor returns to the kid's punches, but too smooth. Ash is looking gnarly. I think he might limp through the mid rounds and hold on for at least a decision. Wrong, like a bad dream the bottom falls out and WHACK the prizefighter has nothing left in the tank. The flavor disappears, goes MIA and I'm scared for the kid. Ash is too flaky and blows off like a cheap cigarette. My mouth goes fully dry and I swig water like I'm in the Sahara The kid is taking a beating against the ropes and is washed over by an attack of cedar. Nothing but, cedar-it's downright brutal. I know what he's thinking. It's what I use to think “I can hang on. I can do this, but I'm so tired...and my mouth is as dry as the Sahara!”
3/3: I rush to his corner and beg his manager to stop the fight, but he doesn't listen...the kid was his ticket to the big time. Then, I see it. I don't remember what I was thinking, maybe it was that I had wished someone had done the same for me. With all the cedar gushing out, the kid was a mess. The crowd was a fever pitch, because tonight they wanted to see a death in the ring and they would not be denied. But, as the gentle cotton towel fell dead center in the middle of the ring the referee, who had also been paralyzed and didn't see that the kid was out on his feet, heading to that great match in the sky, suddenly came to and mercifully stopped the fight. There was a lot of ballyhoo about it after the match, but those who witnessed it said that “I had grabbed the white towel off of the shoulder of the schlep of a manager and had tossed it into the ring”. I vaguely remember a sliver of a memory which echoed I couldn't be party to this public murder. During the confusion, I disappeared into the crowd, but I could see the kid had dropped like a flicked bad tasting cigar butt into the gutter. Luckily, during the commotion I was just another guy. The papers said it was the damnedest thing they'd seen in a minute...sadly the Prizefight didn't make it. I went back to my life and treated the Kid Gurkha incident like a bad dream.
Overall:
Overall, I can't help but think that the Prizefighter was a victim, not of my former B&M's crappy humidor, or the vicious cigar industry wanting the latest and greatest, which instead of cultivating great smokes, offer puffed up contenders, as so much grist for the mill, but sadly it was a garbage of a smoke to begin with. I had seen it before, all the promise of diverse flavors wrapped up in a pretty package, but ultimately just another bum smoke in a world of bum smokes. I saw myself in the kid, wanting to be a contender, and with enough breaks, maybe even a champion. But, between a scrawny kid in a boxing gym lacing up the gloves for the first time and being carried out of the ring a champion is REALITY...and reality can be a bitter fickle bitch. Ask, me I've lived it...those who still remember me back then, now call me “Newb of the Dog Rockets” behind my back on the forums and at the local B&M. Yeah, it stings, but it's my life.
On dark and stormy nights like this, I think about the redhead with curves to kill for, the Prizefighter and the Sahara. I say a prayer for the kid, pine for the redhead and consider myself lucky.
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