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  Mulled Cider Oud Perfume Oil

  Take a break from pondering that orb, and mull over this mug! Sweet oud infused with fermented apple, allspice, cinnamon sticks, ginger root, clove, orange slices, and bourbon.

  Out of Stock
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  Wulric, The Wolfman Perfume Oil

  A lively tune is being played nearby; it is syncopated, a disjointed song, but perky and upbeat. As you turn to the next stage, you see the broad back and shaggy hair of the next performer. He is seated on a stool in front of a battered upright piano. Wire pokes out from holes in the back of the decrepit beechwood, and broken pinblocks are scattered on the floor. A bowl of glistening viscera has been plopped on a small end table next to the pianist. You can see that the ivory keys of the piano are smeared with blood. He pounds and tinkles the keys merrily, and laughs to himself. The man turns to the audience, and his unkempt russet hair, feral yellow eyes, wild balbo, and chin curtain beard betray his lycanthropic nature. He smiles widely, innocently, and waves his red-stained, black-clawed paw in a genial welcome. He bellows cheerfully, “Hi there! Make yourself comfortable! Don’t you look absolutely necrolishious! HA! HAHA! I just made that word up!” He laughs again, turns, and resumes playing the piano. The rambling tune picks up pace, and he plays with a showman’s flourish. The song slows as he chats with the audience from over his shoulder. “You know, my ex-girlfriend was a real handful, but really… I’ve never known a woman that was as tender as she was. She was all gushy, and well… to be honest, she just fell to pieces for me. Eventually, things ran their course… three courses, really… and, as they say, nothing lasts forever. But I’ll always have a piece of her, here… close to my heart.” He chuckles, and pats the chest of his patchwork overcoat.

  In the distance, possibly from Meskhenet’s stage, you hear one of the phantom musicians give Wulric a gratuitous rim shot.

  Friendly, charming, and cuddly, but possessing one hell of a mean streak: cocoa absolute, French vanilla, birch tar, lavender, bourbon vetiver, wild musk, cardamom husk, clary sage, and cistus.

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• 

  Sugar Cookies and Bourbon Perfume Oil

  Out of Stock
• 

  Jazz Funeral Perfume Oil

  Considered a great honor, this is one of the most distinguished aspects of New Orleans culture. Its roots lie in the customs of the Dahomeans and Yoruba people, and is a celebration of both the person’s life and the beauty and solemnity of their death. The procession is lead by the Grand Marshal, resplendent in his black tuxedo, white gloves and black hat in hand; almost a vision of the great Baron Samedi himself. The music begins with solemn, tolling dirges, moves into hymns of sorrow, loss and redemption. When the burial site is reached, a two-note preparatory riff is sounded, and the drummers start the second-line beat, heralding the switch in music to joyous, upbeat songs, dancing, and the unfurling of richly decorated umbrellas by the ‘second line’ friends, family, loved ones and stray celebrants. Strutting, bouncing, and festive dance accompanies the upbeat ragtime music that sends the departed soul onto its next journey.

  Didn’t he ramble
  … he rambled
  Rambled all around
  … in and out of town
  Didn’t he ramble
  … didn’t he ramble
  He rambled till the butcher cut him down.

  His feet was in the market place
  his head was in the street
  Lady pass him by, said
  look at the market meat
  He grabbed her pocket book
  and said I wish you well
  She pulled out a forty-five
  said I’m head of personnel.

  Didn’t he ramble
  … he rambled
  Rambled all around
  … in and out of town
  Didn’t he ramble
  … didn’t he ramble
  He rambled till the butcher cut him down.

  He slipped into the cat house
  made love to the stable
  Madam caught him cold
  said I’ll pay you when I be able
  Six months had passed
  and she stood all she could stand
  She said buddy when I’m through with you
  Ole groundhog gonna be shakin yo’ hand.

  Didn’t he ramble
  … he rambled
  Rambled all around
  … in and out of town
  Didn’t he ramble
  … didn’t he ramble
  He rambled till the butcher cut him down.

  I said he rambled
  lord
  … ’till the butcher shot him down.

  Bittersweet bay rum, bourbon, and a host of funeral flowers with a touch of graveyard dirt, magnolia and Spanish Moss.

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