A candlelit room is adorned with the finest trinkets and items, incapsulated by a glistening orange hue and the sounds of a man, groaning in delight. Sat on a chaise longue, shirtless, is the rotund Rochefort, being fed grapes by a beautiful raven haired maiden.
He reaches out and grabs a goblet of wine, supping between bites.
“Combat eez like a fine wine, oui?” Rochefort says with a wicked smile. “But a fine wine doesn’t ‘appen wivoot a concentrated effairt.”
The raven haired maiden stops feeding him grapes and steps aside.
“First, you need to ‘arvest ze right grapes. Wivoot zese, your wine won’t ‘ave le right flavour.”
He swirls the wine around in his goblet.
“And when you’ve ‘arvested, you move onto fairmontashe-on. A lit-tel sugar for sweetnez and a lit-tel yeast, oui? Yum.” Rochefort can’t restrain himself any longer and takes another sup. “All zis effairt goes into la creashe-on of ze most perfect wine. Together, la cacophony of zese processes prepares le delectable flavours zat dance like an orgy of la senses on your tongue.”
The maiden returns with a large bottle of wine, refilling his goblet.
“But ze most impairtent and final step of ze process, is the pressing of ze wine. Zat is when le wine has fermented and can be drained freely, but ze skins remain.”
With a wicked smile, Rochefort rises from the chaise longue and kisses his maiden on the cheek. He walks across the room and sits at a table, his belly pressed up against it. On it is an invitation to Old School Wrestling. He picks it up and smiles.
“At Lambs to la Slaughtair, Zeus ‘as gathered le finest grapes of Arcadia. Zese men and women ‘ave been tested through time and grown een ze rough and tumble woods of pain and anguish. They’re plump, succulent and full of life. All zese years of growing een Old School Wrestling has prepared zem for ze final steps. Ze time fair picking ‘as begun. Zeus ‘as placed zem all into Lambs, ready fair zeir fairmontashe-on.”
He tosses the invitation down and receives a kiss from his maiden.
“As zey come togethair, they’ll ferment een the sugary sweet environment of Lambs to le Slaughtair. La yeast of battle ready to devour the sugars and begin ze process of making a fine wine.”
“And I’m sure zat when eet happens, it’ll be la most delicious of events.”
“By la time ai arrive, those grapes will be ready for one of the most impairtént procezes.”
“Pressing.”
Rochefort stands up and grabs a boot, placing it on the table.
“I’m non grape, non non non. Ai don’t grow them, ai don’t pick them and ai don’t ferment them.”
“What ai do eez take mon size thirteens and press them.”
He laughs.
“And at Lambs to le Slaughtair, I’ll be la one stomping on grapes to finish le procez zat creates ze finest blood red wine.”
“All for one and one for all.”
“But mostly for mon goblet.”