Whiskey
-
Belgian Chocolate, Black Pepper, Whiskey, and Bourbon Vanilla Perfume Oil
Out of StockBelgian Chocolate, Black Pepper, Whiskey, and Bourbon Vanilla
-
Blue Ghost Blues Perfume Oil
Out of StockI feel myself sinkin’ down
I feel myself sinkin’ down
My body is freezin’
I feel something cold creepin’ aroundMy windows is rattlin’
My doorknob turnin’ round an’ round
My windows is rattlin’
My doorknob turnin’ round an’ round
This haunted house blues is killin’ me
I feel myself sinkin’ downI been fastin’ in this haunted house
Six long months today
I been fastin’ in this haunted house
Six long months today
The Blue Ghost is got the house surrounded, Lord
And I can’t get awayThey got shotguns and pistols
Standin’ all round my door
They got shotguns and pistols
Standin’ all round my door
They haunt me all night long
So I can’t sleep no moreThe Blue Ghost haunts me all night
The nightmare rides me all night long
The Blue Ghost haunts me at night
The nightmare rides me all night long
They worry me so in this haunted house
I wished I was dead and gone
– Lonnie JohnsonA ward against evil: bay rum, whiskey, cigar smoke, black pepper, and salt.
-
Bourbon & Bone Hair Gloss
Out of StockClacking white sandalwood drenched in whiskey and a puff of cigar smoke.
-
For the Joy of It Perfume Oil
Add to cartIn prison Shadow had learned there were two kinds of fights: don’t fuck with me fights, where you made it as showy and impressive as you could, and private fights, real fights, which were fast and hard and nasty, and always over in seconds.
“Hey, Sweeney,” said Shadow, breathless, “why are we fighting?”
“For the joy of it,” said Sweeney, sober now, or at least, no longer visibly drunk. “For the sheer unholy fucken delight of it. Can’t you feel the joy in your own veins, rising like the sap in the springtime?” His lip was bleeding. So was Shadow’s knuckle.
Whiskey, mead, honey, gold, sweat, and blood.
-
Lycanthrope for Your Life Perfume Oil
Add to cartHey look, it’s that TikTok queen who only performs live once in a full moon.
Cardamom-infused whiskey, fig cream, honey, and marshmallow fluff.
-
Mad Sweeney Perfume Oil
Add to cart“Coin tricks is it?” asked Sweeney, his chin raising, his scruffy beard bristling. “Why, if it’s coin tricks we’re doing, watch this.”
He took an empty glass from the table. Then he reached out and took a large coin, golden and shining, from the air. He dropped it into the glass. He took another gold coin from the air and tossed it into the glass, where it clinked against the first. He took a coin from the candle flame of a candle on the wall, another from his beard, a third from Shadow’s empty left hand, and dropped them, one by one, into the glass. Then he curled his fingrs over the glass, and blew hard, and several more golden coins dropped into the glass from his hand. He tipped the glass of sticky coins into his jacket pocket, and then tapped the pocket to show, unmistakably, that it was empty.
“There,” he said. “That’s a coin trick for you.”
Barrel-aged whiskey and oak.
-
Mister Wednesday Perfume Oil
Add to cartHis hair was a reddish gray; his beard, little more than stubble, was grayish red. A craggy, square face with pale gray eyes. The suit looked expensive, and was the color of melted vanilla ice cream. His tie was dark gray silk, and the tie pin was a tree, worked in silver: trunk, branches, and deep roots.
He held his glass of Jack Daniel’s as they took off, and did not spill a drop.
Sleek cologne, the memory of a Nine Herbs Charm, gallows wood, and a splash of whiskey.
-
Sitzmark Perfume Oil
Out of StockI just love that there’s a word for the depression left in snow after a skier falls backwards.
Many years ago, I hit a plane of ice while snowboarding and flipped, landing directly on my tailbone. At the time, I hadn’t realized that I had broken it; I just knew that it hurt like hell. I didn’t want Ted or Brian to stop having fun on account of me, so I got up, smiled, waved, and told them I was juuuuust fine – I was a little tired, though, and was going to go read for a bit. Get some air, relax, blah blah blah. Then, once they were back on the lift, I quietly limped to the car.
This is the scent of the drink I would have loved to have had right at that moment, while I was nursing my injured pride and broken ass: hot cocoa with a belt of whiskey and kahlua.
With marshmallows.
When you break your ass bone snowboarding, you deserve a goddamn marshmallow.
[Label art by Tom, screengrabbed from our DMs.]
-
Tavern of Hell Perfume Oil
Select OptionsSometimes I would venture from my sepulchre to the jazz of night Paris, where having gathered the colours, I would think them over in front of the fire. I could be seen walking through a funeral corridor of my house and descending down a black spiral of steep stairs; rushing underground to Montmartre, all impatience to see the fiery rubies of the Moulin Rouge cross. I wondered thereabouts, then bought a ticket to watch frenzied delirium of feathers, vulgar painted lips and eyelashes of black and blue.
Naked feet, and thighs, and arms, and breasts were being flung on me from bloody-red foam of translucent clothes. The tuxedoed goatees and crooked noses in white vests and toppers would line the hall, with their hands posed on canes. Then I found myself in a pub, where the liqueurs were served on a coffin (not a table) by the nickering devil: “Drink it, you wretched!” Having drunk, I returned under the black sky split by the flaming vanes, which the radiant needles of my eyelashes cross-hatched. In front of my nose a stream of bowler hats and black veils was still pulsing, foamy with bluish green and warm orange of feathers worn by the night beauties: to me they were all one, as I had to narrow my eyes for insupportable radiance of electric lamps, whose hectic fires would be dancing beneath my nervous eyelids for many a night to come.
White gardenia, ambergris bouquet, lavender fougere, orange blossom, melissa, tobacco flower, coriander, ebony wood, ylang ylang, absinthe and aged whiskey.
-
The Center Perfume Oil
Add to cart“What is the word for it? The opposite of sacred?”
“Profane,” said Shadow, without thinking.
“No,” said Czernobog. “I mean, when a place is less sacred than any other place. Of negative sacredness. Places where they can build no temples. Places where people will not come, and will leave as soon as they can. Places where gods only walk if they are forced to.”
“I don’t know,” said Shadow. “I don’t think there is a word for it.”
“All of America has it, a little,” said Czernobog. “That is why we are not welcome here. But the center,” said Czernobog. “The center is worst. Is like a minefield. We all tread too carefully there to dare break the truce.”
Peeling paint, faded wallpaper and threadbare carpets, flickering neon, candlewax, and a fading whiff of Jack Daniels.