My brother rocks.

Inspired by insomnia and my previous post of soup blurbs, my bro, Patrick, sent me this absolute masterpiece.

He calls it 'soup noir.'

What was this? Where did it come from? Just a thermos, no note. Placed carefully in the center of my desk in the middle of the night during the worst storm of the century. Who would bother? It had to be the dame. She saw me hide the key when we left last night. There was no question whether I was going to taste it. A guy like me, in this business, you had to take risks. Eighty years and then a pine box is no reward if those years are spent spineless and simpering like a lost cat. Besides, my olfactory savvy told me this was no gastrological gassing. The voluptuous redolence that filled my office wasn't the by-product of one of my usual low-rent cases. No, this stuff smelled like class. Me and posh ain't lived in the same neighborhood for a long time, but I still drive by from time to time, and this had that dandified feel to it that you don't find in this part of town.

I took a healthy swig.

Yep, it was soup.

He concluded with props to Mickey Spillane.