They are the League of Extraordinary Drinkers. A club, yes—but not the kind you join. The kind you recognize. Something sacred. Something older. Something passed through whispers, handshakes, and folded napkins. Its members speak rarely of the League outside its walls, but its influence—subtle, thoughtful, enduring—can be traced like a watermark behind the world’s great ideas.

Its origins are cloaked in deliberate ambiguity. Some say Twain helped pen the first charter, hidden in the margins of a manuscript. Others believe Churchill, during wartime briefings, shared toasts coded with League language. There are rumors Napoleon wore red velvet beneath his military coat. That Queen Elizabeth once raised a glass in solemn silence, sealing her honorary membership. No one confirms. No one denies.

The men wear red. Eleven velvet jackets. Each one custom-tailored, passed down or mysteriously delivered. No one asks where the jackets come from. They arrive when they are meant to. To the unknowing eye, the group might resemble old-world nobility, or the founders of something vast and hidden. But to each other, the jackets are a sign: you belong. You’ve always belonged. The work continues.

The evening begins with The Selection. A member walks to the Vault—more cabinet than reliquary, its contents guarded more by memory than key. The chosen drink may be bourbon, tequila, stout. The liquid matters. But not as much as the story. The bottle is introduced in quiet ceremony—perhaps one aged through three solar eclipses, or rescued from a sunken cellar, or gifted by a man who disappeared two weeks later. The cork is pulled. The pour is made. The ritual begins.

Conversation takes no effort. It simply begins—as if continuing from a conversation paused centuries ago. One evening, they debated whether modern athletes—powered by science and sponsorships—could rival the untethered greatness of Jordan, Ali, or Ruth. On another, they questioned whether AI could ever replicate the sensation of meaning—the thing that makes a drink memorable, or a night unforgettable.

They’ve charted Fibonacci spirals across the ceiling, traced Kierkegaard’s despair into the head of a tulip glass, and once drew a bourbon trail on a map of Mars—not for tourism, but for posterity.

There are stories, always. That Frank Sinatra once entered through the side door and left without a word. That John Wayne cracked the arm of a leather chair still in use. That Hemingway left a note beneath the floorboards. That Nixon, in a rare act of clarity, brought a bottle to thaw a geopolitical freeze. And, of course, that Sean Connery—one of the League’s most charismatic whispers—bestowed the Society with its eternal motto:

“Slencairp Forever!!”

Its meaning remains unclear. Its power does not.

Not everything poured is bourbon. They are not dogmatic. They drink what the evening requires—what the conversation calls forth. Tequila, beer, rye, scotch. The rules are few. The reverence is absolute.

The members are lawyers, artists, engineers, fathers, diplomats, and one man whose profession has never been named. His jacket fits perfectly. That is enough.

There are no minutes. No formal toasts. But moments are remembered. Marked. Woven into the lineage. The League does not archive its sessions—but somehow, its knowledge accumulates.

There is always an empty chair. It belongs to Buffett. He’s not gone. Just delayed. Or perhaps he attends meetings you don’t see.

If you pass a quiet house lit by a strange constellation of porch lights, and the breeze carries a trace of oak and the sound of hushed laughter wrapped around the word photosynthesis, don’t knock.

You’ll know if you’re meant to be there.

And if you raise your glass—quietly, without expectation—someone, somewhere, will raise theirs too.

Slencairp Forever!!