Hyperion by El Titan de Bronze ~ SBC Exclusive | Cigar Reviews by the Katman

Wrapper: Sumatran
Binder: Ecuadorian
Filler: Dominican
Size: 6 x 52 Toro
Strength: Medium/Full
Price: $16.00

I bought these cigars from Small Batch Cigar…the only place on planet Earth or Star Cluster “47 Tucanae” (Marked down from 47.99 due to a mishap with an exotic dancer), …in which you can steal these sticks.

From Kyle Gellis (Warped Cigars):
“I wanted Hyperion to be a celebration of Sandy’s (Sandy Cobas~Owner of El Titan de Bronze) professional achievements as a guiding hand in some of the most influential brands in the industry, while simultaneously recognizing her fighting spirit that always cheers for the little guy (or gal) with a big story. Hyperion accomplishes everything we wanted it to and more, and it is absolutely my honor to be able to share this blend with you.”

Only 500 bundles of 10 available.
They have been marinating naked in my humidor for 3 months.

Right of the bat…the elephant…I find that there are fanatical lovers of Warped Cigars and that there are smokers who don’t care for the brand. The way of the world. I’m guessing ahead of time that if I like this cigar…you Warparinos will buy it. If you shake your head about Mr. Gellis’s taste, maybe you will and maybe you won’t.

Impossible to ignore the fruity aroma spewing from the unlit cigar…nearly matched with milk chocolate, creaminess, black pepper, lemonade, and a basket of freshly picked berries.

Nicely stout stick. Fat and heavy in the hand.

The draw is a bit tight for my tastes, so I grab the immortal PerfecDraw draw adjustment tool and just remove a bit of a plug near the cigar band area and I’m happy as a clam. I just learned that Jerry Seinfeld will debut his new show, “Bivalves in Cars Getting Shucked.”

Density. A hearty blend. Instant complexity. A sophisticated smoker’s kind of start. Heavy tobacco without the addition of made-up ancillary flavors. Just good stuff. A He-Man’s cigar.

Strength is medium/full without a thought of retribution.

I smoked a couple of these sticks along the way to this point at 3 months. Can’t help it. But today’s blend is superior due to some needed rest in my humidor. Let it breathe. Let it socialize with your other cigars. See if this cigar is one of the popular kids or one of the nerds. (I was mostly a nerd in high school).

The heaviness disappears and a creamy smoothness appears giving the blend a nice effect of being ridden hard and put away wet. Spiciness is held at bay. Just enough to make the blend sparkle.

1-1/2” smoked and my early determination is that Warperinos will like this cigar. But it doesn’t match other Gellis’ blends. This one is aimed at the serious smoker. The bushel of flavors that are repeated over and over again are subdued to the point of near invisibility. The tobacco is doing the heavy lifting…and it’s a cool blend. My kind of cigar.
I’m as guilty as anyone describing a menu of flittering flavors that are subjugated by one’s own brain and palate. Again, this is a manly and dense blend. You don’t need no stinkin’ brilliant palate for this baby. The only requisite is you can recognize a good cigar when you taste one.

The char line is brilliant. I’d take photos but who cares? Years ago, I took too many photos for my reviews. What a pain in the ass. If I say the ash is long and taut, your brain will bring up an old memory and that’s that.

Getting back on the horse after having the flu was not easy. The mildest of cigars, during my recovery, made me dizzier than riding the Tea Cups.

Did you watch the 2022 Rock n Roll Hall of Fame show? Whoever mixed the sound should be tarred and feathered. 15 people on stage with each performance and the only thing you heard was the lead vocal, the drums, and the bass.

First sip of water and a flood of earthy tobacco notes fills the arena.

Doesn’t matter what brand or who blended this cigar…this is a solid experience. Everything about this stick is spot on. A nice slow roll. Perfect construction. And my brain says go baby go.

Transitions are light. Everything from dense chocolate to espresso to creaminess to tiny citrus interventions. A fruit salad of pineapple, mango, and berries appears dancing the light fandango in the background.

The complexity deepens. The finish is soupy with black pepper and assorted Central American leaf influences.

This will be a 90-minute smoke.

Strength moves into a parking space titled Full Tilt.

I held back recommending this to newbies. I was correct in hanging back. I’m only at the halfway point and the strength becomes searing. Yet my vision is intact.

The blend is friggin’ delicious. Each half inch intensifies the lovely experience. This is a great cigar to enjoy with your favorite bourbon.
The move to full strength made my legs a bit shaky at first…but now, the innate smoothness of the blend takes command, and the strength is controlled.

I must reiterate that some sleep is absolutely needed for this blend to shine. Now that I know what this cigar offers, I need more with the intent to let them sleep longer than 3 months. Twice that should really bring out more identifiable notes.

I just noticed the price of the cigar. It better taste good for $16. Mission accomplished. Use promo code katman for 10% off and the stick becomes a $14 stick.

I like Warped blends…for the most part. I want to say that this baby is the best Warped I’ve smoked.

Check the 90-minute prediction…two hours will be the cigar’s life experience.

I am duly impressed with the cigar’s construction. Perfect char line. No softening of the cigar occurs. Well done Mr. Gellis and Mr. Considine.

I’m now in the lip-smacking mode. The finish is delightful. Slow moving transitions make an impressive cigar even better. Complexity is through the roof.

Hop on the bus, Gus.
Great plan, Stan.

If I were anymore relaxed, I’d be unconscious.
The blend is a cruiser. Try to keep up. This would be one of my desert island choices.

No flavor wheel notes. Just solid intensity. The cigar doesn’t allow your brain to meander.

The last third is the landing zone for the sweet spot.

Nicotine enters and face planting is now a possibility. But my palate screams, “Don’t stop.”

Creaminess runs in front of the pack.
The tobacco choices are dead nuts perfection.
I’m down to 1” and the clock says 2 hours.
I love this cigar.

Remember, 10% off with katman promo code at Small Batch Cigar.


And now for something completely different:

Back in time, around 1979-1985, I owned and ran a recording studio.
I lived in North Long Beach…a very diverse neighborhood.
But a very clean and neat area because folks took care of their houses and yards.
A very friendly neighborhood. A blue-collar neighborhood.

A Filipino family lived next door with about 15 uncles and aunts living with them. One elderly uncle started to mow my lawn without ever asking. All good. The man never spoke to me, even in Tagalog. I paid him to continue to do so every week.

As a thank you from his family, every week they brought me the spoils from hanging out at the Long Beach pier. Without fail, I was handed a big old fish weighing in around 5lbs. Totally intact. They didn’t bother to gut it. Not my thing at the time. I kept throwing them into my 1960 Amana refrigerator with a massive freezer. They piled up like cords of wood.

When I moved after 6 years in the house, I left the fakakta fridge where it stood. The electricity was turned off. And I heard that it took a month before anyone bothered to deal with the fridge that was quietly becoming a saltwater fish burial ground. I would have loved to have been there when the first person opened it and got hit in the puss with rotted fish. Good times.

I had obtained a gopher problem about 6 months after I bought the house. Cute at first…but then my lawn began to sink. I tried everything we all have done to rid the varmints. Nothing worked.

In fact, an undercover cop tripped and fell from one of the holes. A bunch of them had pretended to be Southern California Edison workers while they tapped the phone of the people on the corner. I ran to his aid and so did the other cops. That’s when I noticed their holstered guns. I was white, clean cut, and polite. They left me alone. Not a clue that I had several ounces of weed and coke in my safe that was used for bribery in my music business endeavors. It was the 80’s. “Blow.”
Turned out that a couple people moved into the rental and sold dime bags of crack. The cops got the bad guys. And I shook their hands and told them good work. Gave them cigars.

I turned into Caddyshack’s Bill Murray. I used the water hose constantly. The gophers laughed at me spitting water from between their buckteeth.

I tried poisoning them. They put the poison on Ritz Crackers.

I’d be out front, and it was like Whack-A-Mole. These little assholes would come up from their holes and stare at me. I’d run over with a shovel, but to no avail. Gophers are faster than man. I believe a gopher got the land speed record at Bonneville in 1902.

I hired an exterminator who guaranteed he would make them disappear.
He failed. He even used gas. Twice. It gave the gophers the munchies.

One day, I was doing the hose thing when I noticed a few feet away from me that a very wet and soaked gopher popped his head up coughing for air.

I took my KA-BAR knife and started slashing away like Anthony Perkins in “Pyscho.” I was screaming like a banshee which had folks coming out of their houses to see what was going on.

I kept missing the little fucker…because I didn’t have the nerve to look when I brought the knife down. Finally, as it seemed that the clock had run out, I stared at him in the eyes…he stared right back. I yelled like a Japanese soldier in WWII and stuck the huge knife through his chest. I had skewered him like a shish kabob.

His last words were: “The Family won’t like this.”

It was hell getting my knife back from the squishy beast and I began to feel queasy.
It was a beautiful, sunny SoCal day.
I walked back into my house and sat on my couch staring at the wall. I sat there a long time.

I had sent a message of death to the other gophers.

He was soaking wet, and I didn’t want him to fall apart on me when I tried to dispose of the body. So, I figured I’d wait til the next day when he was a bit crispier.

Because I worked late at my recording studio, I usually slept in til 9am or so.
The next morning, I started my day and I hear the gas lawn mower plugging away. I looked out to see my neighbor doing his thing. I didn’t see the gopher…he got rid of it for me. I was going to tip him when I got back from work for lunch.

As I got into my 1972 Bentley, I waved and nodded to my neighbor who responded with a huge toothless smile.

I came home about 5 hours later, and I noticed something on the lawn.
It was gopher burger. The neighbor just ran over and over this little dead critter until the lawn was one big feeding ground for wild dingoes.

That must have scared the shit out of the millions of gophers that made my lawn their home because I never had a single problem after that. I was Gopherman before I was Katman. Odd story…

Part 2: My Kill House in Long Beach… Flip Flops Preferred…
The two thugs in charge of all things illegal in my part of the neighborhood made themselves known to me not long after I moved there.
Instead of being afraid of these guys, I held them to my breast.

I made it clear that I was a musician, and I had a studio. Immediately, I was cool to these guys…who must have been in their mid-20’s.

But the thing that really swayed them to my side was the official gala for the opening of the studio. After I turned the place into a state-of-the-art business, I threw a massive hoe-down. I invited all the important people in town. I had city council folks, fellow musicians, writers from the Long Beach, and surrounding cities, newspapers, etc. It was an official happening. The head of the Long Beach Gran Prix showed up as she had a crush on me. Donna was 15 years older than me, but I liked her a lot. The hoi polloi ‘old money’ community of the city did not approve of Donna having a boy toy (my early 30’s). She didn’t care and neither did I. I was very single. I went to the crème de la crème, big city money, the deciders’ and the movers’ small meetings with Donna. I had left work and was wearing flip flops…running my studio required 15-hour days, 7 days a week…you gotta be comfy when you’re working in a recording environment.

No idea the stares…and the looks of disapproval. Shaking their heads at Donna. And Donna just smiling at me. She be cool. She went on to run the 1984 Los Angeles Olympic Committee for Long Beach’s 6 events. Donna ran the whole shebang and I helped. My studio was available at her desire. We hung out a lot during the pre-Olympics year. I saw her obituary a couple months ago. She got to be an old lady. But she never married or had children. I’m positive it’s my fault.

I invited the thugs to the party. They were blown away that I offered an invitation.

The party was a huge success. Yes, I hired two magicians to walk amongst the crowd. I refrained from balloon animals. There was free booze. And music was blasting away on our studio speakers.

Several hundred people attended. You could smell the joints in Seal Beach.

At the party, the boys would occasionally approach me and tell me they were having the time of their lives…all big Cheshire Cat smiles. They got to meet some well-known musicians and I introduced the guys as dear friends.

After that, they mandated that my house be left alone, and no minor thugs could touch me. They became my protectors and executioners.
I continued to invite them to every release party.

One day, they show up at my door with a couple of new Fender Strats with the tags still on them. They wanted to sell them to me.

I knew they were stolen but I knew if I didn’t buy them, my protection might be diminished. So, I got the guitars for cents on the dollar.

Before long, it became a regular thing. I kept buying and storing the gear at the studio.

Then one day they asked if there was any musical equipment I needed?
I told them it would be nice to have this or that. And the boys came through.

Not long after, I had an epiphany.
I realized that not only was I receiving stolen property, but now I was placing orders for items to steal. I saw myself at Terminal Island Prison for 10 years.

I explained to the boys that I could no longer place orders. They took it well and were smart enough to understand the dilemma.

Every time I saw them, they offered up weed or coke or God knows what. I told them I didn’t do drugs. I told them I was a recovering junkie. When in fact, like all my friends and acquaintances, I was knee deep in cocaine.

Each time I had to leave town for a couple weeks to babysit Butch Patrick and my Eddie and the Monsters project, they had one of their own stand guard over my house so no one fucked with me.

My dreams as a little boy had come true…I was now a crime lord.

To Donna, 1935-2022…You were the coolest chick I ever knew.
Photo from Miss Cole’s obituary:


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