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I mentioned not all that long ago that I’d never been hunting before, and being the “go big or go home” kind of guy that I am, I figured I’d book my first safari off-world. You’ll recall that I managed to bag a full grown Xenomorph charging at me from about two-hundred yards with my Famas. But of course, at a thousand rounds per minute, how could I miss, right? Well, what I didn’t tell you is that I also happened to cross paths with a Yautja—or as is more widely known—a Predator.

By the way, I later learned that this particular Yautja’s name was Frank. Apparently, he was named after an uncle on his mother’s side who lives on Hoth. The whole story seemed strangely familiar.

Unbeknownst to me and my guide Reggie (who, by the way, died when his chest unexpectedly exploded from what I assumed was drinking too much Ohishi Whisky), Frank was hunting in the same sector of LV-426. Needless to say, because Yautja are pretty territorial, things didn’t go well between us at first.

Thankfully, I managed to bag him, too. Well, I didn’t bag him, per se, but I did defeat him. Again, a thousand rounds per minute does wonders. I should add, as has been said of the Yautja, “Predators don’t just sit around making hats out of rib cages. They conquered space.” In other words, they’re warriors deserving of the respect the universe grants them. With that respect comes honor, and so during an after-battle confab over coffee, Frank asked what he could offer to serve as my trophy. I told him it would be really cool to take home and display his blade gauntlet. He said that the gauntlets were surgically attached to every Yautja. I asked if I could at least get a quick photo to take home. He agreed. But again, being a fearless and noble creature, no sooner than I snapped the photo did he pull out his six-bladed shuriken and lop his arm right off.

Let me tell you, Yautja bioluminescent bloodstains are permanent.

When I got home, I had the whole thing mounted as a Christmas gift for Jen, but she was more disgusted than impressed. I suppose I’ll just keep it on my bar.

When all was said and done, I certainly knew which whiskey I wanted to ingest while admiring my well-won trophy—the Featherbone Bourbon Whiskey from Journeyman Distillery, which is made right here in my home state of Michigan.

I’d been eyeballing this particular whiskey for a while, and since I’d just returned from an excursion that was most certainly journey-like, it seemed appropriate.

A grand mix of rye, malted barley, wheat, and corn, the nose of this dram is rich and otherworldly, giving over thick scents of vanilla-drenched almonds tagged with a dash of sea salt. The palate delivers the barley’s malt tinged with the sweet rye. A second sip calls up warmed oatmeal, cream, and brown sugar.

The medium finish is just delightful, leaving behind honeyed blackberries.

For the record, I did invite Frank to join me at home one day for a dram. He did say that he sometimes makes his way to earth, most often to Central America or Los Angeles. Although, I’m betting it could get a little awkward with his right arm as one of the prized centerpieces of my bar room décor.

Maybe I’ll just make plans to meet him at the local Red Lobster, instead.