play with serious consequences.

Four men in a room, one $400 bottle of wine, one glass each, twelve hour lockdown, one gun. What happens?

This is my pitch for a new play based on the '96 Vega Sicilia "Unico" a great wine from the Ribera del Duero region of Spain. From what I understand, children across Spain sing odes to the Unico after their national pledge of allegiance. Old farmers sell their last cattle before retiring with a bottle into the long, dusty road to death. Its great.

So what happens to these four men? Who are they? What are the conditions?
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Bruno, a french-emigree, mid-thirties, taste buds completely stripped in a Burgundy tasting accident, his olfactory senses revoked by border police when crossing into American from Canada and declaring that his inspector smelled of truffles.

Rudolph, the son of illustrious comic book illustrators. He is the only one from wealth, the only one who had in the past tasted any vintage Unico, the flavor profile forever imprinted on his brain.

Justin, a former teen-idol turned celebrated artist on his own right, in his own mind. This young middle class man from Wyoming does resemble Justin Timberlake, found this a means to an end early in youth and has cultivated the likeness to get what he wants. His three friends do believe he is in fact Justin Timberlake. Maybe he truly is this person, and he's playing games with me, his alternate world author.

The fourth is, of course, me. I am G-d to this slice of half-baked fiction, to this pile of dried beans in need of a soak and boil in the waters of meaning. But its my hill of beans, though it doesn't account for much.

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Scene 1. The four of us are in an empty basement looking room. We sit around a card table on folded chairs. One light hangs overhead. Italian opera plays, skips, plays, skips. On the table is the Unico and four glasses. A wine key balances perfectly on justin's nose.

BRUNO: So we begin our 12 hour adventure. Hands out, fellahs.

(We all reach into our pockets and produce wads of cash equalling $100. Rudolph places a revolver on the table).

BRUNO: That's right. $100 each for this $400 bottle of wine. And Rudolph, only a single bullet, yes?

RUDOLPH: Yes. A single bullet.

BRUNO: Let me see.

(Bruno takes the gun, spins the bullet holder thing, stops it and takes out the bullet it. He examines it and puts it back in with another spin of the thingy).

BRUNO: Right, so we all know the rules. A bottle of wine pours four glasses. There are four of us. We have twelve hours to enjoy. Nobody wants to finish first, but neither do they want to finish last. The last to finish is shot dead. Who can pull themselves away, even after twelve hours, from the transcendent experience of a glass of Unico? That being said; you guys know I have no sense of taste or smell, right? Chances are that we pour this baby, and I gulp it down real quick.

(The group nods that they do, in fact, know).

BRUNO: Just want to be fair, that's all.

ME: So lets proceed. Justin, first give us a song, then please open the wine.

(Justin does his thing, a rap about the Unico and life with a little dance, too).

JUSTIN: Unico. Unico. Unico. Yeah, baby. Hustle on this piece. Unico.

(Justin flexes, then opens the bottle with perfect poise. He pours the taste to me, I sniff it severely, nod that he continues. He pours a small and equal amount into each glass. We rise, clink glasses and then sit and smell. Rudolph addresses the audience).

RUDOLPH: How did the four of us come together? Not unlike the primary components of this or any wine. We were all picked...

(The four of us laugh).

...Bruno, like the grapes, was harvested from the ground. A former drunk, sprawled on a city subway station platform, he was plucked from his place of being, an anti-growth, shall we say? In his native Savoie, had he ever felt the sun? The good rain? A wash of water draining off in time to make the tasting roots crave more, dig deep into the soil, push out the great membrane of skin to protect the pim, the seed for future generations? What is it about fruit that tastes so good, but genetics?

BRUNO...butt genetics?

(We all laugh).

RUDOLPH: Justin, a teen idol, is like the magic of yeast. He speaks to us because he can sense what is in the air, a righteous bacteria, he knows what we all think and feel and can express it, fermenting our natural juices into a concoction with heady consequences. Then there is Gabriel, like the oak in which the juice sits for sometimes months, sometimes years. His heritage is rough hewn like French oak, imparting hints of hazelnut. Tannins–stick and bramble–are exonerated after years pent-up and add depth to the juice. Rudolph? Me? I am the merchant tonight. I am the negociant, picking crop from various fields to make the blend as I deem fit. Did we miss anyone?

GABRIEL: I am so sexy.

BRUNO: They say in zen that art is not complete without the viewer. It is only half, the archer pulling back on the bow, but the arrow can't take flight without letting loose, so lets get on with the juice.

(We all smell and then drink. I call out).

GABRIEL: Justin, pour the four glasses!

(Justin finishes pouring the four glasses with perfection. We all sit and smell and contemplate).

(SCENE 1 OVER AND OUT).