Tonight’s drinking will take place in honour of…
BENJAMIN FUCKING HORNE!
Oh you smooth bastard, you.
Ben, you had me when you hacked that wad of phlegm into an open fire.
You sexy bitch.
Hotel owner, department store owner, casino/brothel lord, would-be property developer. The man with his fingers in many a Twin Peaks pie, Ben was a right shifty number. Always up to something, planning the downfall of many a lover and rival, while dipping his cock in the choicest of ladies at his own upmarket whore-house. Luck, lucky, lucky. Pick of the bunch. The finest pussy in town, freshly scented from his own perfume counter.
Even when his mental breakdown hit and he retreated into a make believe world of toy soldiers, Ben Horne still looked damn fine in that Confederate general gear.
You don’t need to see Benjamin Horne getting his leg over to know what type of lover he’d be. You can almost judge his appreciation for the female form and the attention he would pay to a woman’s body by the way he devoured his food: ravenous, sensual, eager, needy.
It was all about pleasure with our Ben.
I’m sure that turning over a new leaf post-meltdown wouldn’t have led to the end of ‘Little Elvis’ being let out to play. Trading in cigars for carrots would only have served to improve his stamina.
Fuck. Now let’s just erase the memory of that shell suit you occasionally sported, shall we?
Get your war coat back on, Benjamin baby! It’s time to march into battle.