Most You Have Struggled For A Bowl of Royal Yacht

For me, it was one night at Terminal 29B.
I had flown in for work and showed up late, thanks to a plane which had careened off the runway in Kansas. It can't be helped; it also means I show up four hours off-schedule and still have to find my hotel.
Even worse, my luggage had been misdirected. To South Africa, in fact. This meant that while I had my trusty briar with me, my tin of Royal Yacht was looking down at the Atlantic as I missed it.
Thinking quickly, I dodged and dove across the street to a local B&M. It was typical: mostly cigars and imported cigarettes. But at the rear, I saw a display of pipe tobacco...
"Store's closed -- go away," said this big gorilla of a guy.
"But there's Royal Yacht there, and I need it," I said, not realizing the gravity of the situation.
Then I realized what was going on: two gorillas were holding the nervous and sweaty proprietor hostage at the counter. He was counting out money.
"Look, all I need is one tin of -- "
"Enough," said the first gorilla. "You get us back Vinnie, you get your Royal Yacht. Otherwise, no dice."
I realized now I was in a struggle for life 'n' death.
To Be Continued (after this bowl of Royal Yacht #yolo)

"This ain't the guy," the proprietor said.
"He better be the guy," said the first gorilla. "You said eight on the nose. Here he is. This is the guy."
The second one grabbed me by the lapels. "Where is Vinnie? He don't show up, and your buddy here goes for a short swim with concrete shoes."
I realized rapidly that I had been mistaken for a hood, and that I had no idea where Vinnie was, but that these guys were going to do something awful to the local B&M owner. Even worse, that meant I had zero chance of getting a replacement tin of Royal Yacht.
Sweat broke out on my face. Dear Reader, without my daily dose of those strong empire Virginias, I become a bit unhinged. Life loses its zest and benevolent appearance. The dark shadows of clouds block out the sun and all seems dark, a tunnel without a light at the end.
"Let me talk to my associate here," I said, then took the proprietor aside.
"Who the heck is Vinnie?" I asked.
"Their uncle," he whispered. "He came to collect protection money, and then just disappeared."
"Who do you think has him?" I said.
"Probably the triads, or the Russian-Jewish mob, or maybe even the corrupt cops on the Organized Crime Task Force," he said. "All I do is sell tobacco."
"Great," I said. "How about a tin of Royal Yacht?"
His eyes narrowed. "You'd just run away. Get Vinnie back, and your tin is on the house."
Well. If nothing else, I love a sale, and this beat even P&C's 20% off sales.
"Look, I can get Vinnie back," I said to the first gorilla. "But I need you boys to wait for me someplace safe, like the Starbucks across the way. Try the pumpkin latte."
In the doorway, I turned around and looked back at them. "You'll never forget me."
And with that, I was gone into the slashing rain and dense fog of the city night.

I quickly went to Chinatown. "No glot, c'lom Fliday," said the triad leader. From this, I concluded that Vinnie was not in their care.
This left me with a dilemma: what everyone thought was true was in fact wrong, and I still had to look beyond this to find Vinnie... in fact, this reminded me of every human problem since the dawn of time.
I headed to the Northwest. The old WASP criminals told me to get lost, and then politely reminded me that if Vinnie was in some anomalistic way within their target zone, he would be compost by now. I left with many apologies...
The triads, which I found in the Southwest corner of the city, told me very gently that I was on a wild goose chase. "If Vinnie here, he in General Joe's Chicken... does chicken taste like Italian to you?"
Well, no, it did not.
This left me with the conclusion that everyone was wrong, and I had to follow my inner ki and find this guy based on his own behavior.
I checked alleys. Arcades. Pubs. Brothels. Wind tunnels. Everywhere the Chicago jive: "Never heard of him."
I was entirely out of options. And, disturbingly, Royal Yacht. I noticed my hands were shaking.

You are too insightful.
My choices in life are to hang out with my Cambridge friends (four others) whilst discussing the benefits of the idea in our minds alone, or to join the realists out there in the sticks and look at what seems reflected in the order of the forest, fields and human hearts?
Perhaps I shall merely go bourgeois and complain as it passes, then equally complain at the lack of business acumen in the high street?

The ultimate bourgeois is the anti-bourgeois! Say, are you going to drink all of that PBR?

Maybe. I usually drink King Cobra. Don't let the smooth taste fool you...