One day, I was on a journey from Childhood Hill to Adult Valley, and I admit I didn't know which path to take. My wanderings were far and wide, the forks were many, and I took roads well-used in some places, and roads less traveled by in others. Eventually, I came upon a bridge which clearly separated the land I was passing through. The wood I had just enjoyed was rife with ciders and mixed drinks. Even the air smelled of the sorrows of sugary hang-overs; a scent like sour death. On the other side of the bridge, a wonderland of beers and brews glistened from every bough and branch. That was where I wanted to be.
But as I stepped upon the rough cobbles of that spanned divide, a rough, gurgling voice rose in abrubt challenge to my passage.
"Hold it, hold it! Yeh damned goat, yeh know the drill! Yeh can't just-"
The hideous creature faltered mid-sentence, as it emerged from 'neith that bridge and caught sight of my quite ungoatly form. It was an ungainly troll, disgusting and green, a reject from the land where the wild things are. (I reminded myself to visit that place, should I run across it.)
"Oh! Yer no damned goat! Yer a damned lush!" It snorted, dissapointed. "Well, yeh still can't cross my bridge, see? Yeh can't!"
I thought for a moment. The bridge must be crossed, but how to bypass a creature that could forcibly rearrange my insides and my outsides? I decided diplomacy would be advisable.
"Honorable Troll," I said, "Is there not some service I might provide to gain passage across yonder bridge? Some task to complete? Some desire I might fulfill?"
The troll regarded me with growing curiosity, its eyes glowing a mellowing green. "A service, eh?" It scratched its chin in thought. "The goats just talk me into things I regret later. It makes me feel like a co-ed."
I decided to remain silent at that.
Finally after some obvious internal debate, the troll said, "Well, I do have a hobby..." He shuffled his giant, clawed feet with obvious embarrassment (A troll with a hobby?). "I like to brew my own beer, but- but no one but me has ever tried it."
Try a new beer to cross the bridge! I hastily agreed.
"Wow! Really! That's great!" the troll exclaimed before disappearing back beneath the bridge with an excited hopping gait.
The bridge was clear! I had brief seconds in which to simply cross the bridge and beyond the troll's reach forever. But an agreement made is a promise given, and the tattoo of Truth upon my back held my feet in place. The troll returned and the window of escape closed.
"Here it is!" The troll offered me a wooden mug of questionable purity filled with an ominously dark brown liquid. "I call this the Troll Porter," it said.
I accepted that mug with trepidation, but was surprised to find it cold to the touch. Lowering my nose to take a cautious sniff, I detected a faintly sweet aroma, common to brews and breweries. I was encouraged by this, and I even became eager to take the first drink of that trollish concoction.
When the dubious liquid first passed my lips, I was immediately aware of its smoothness, but it still contained a slightly bitter bite; To be expected from a troll, I thought. Then as that delicious drought flowed over my tongue, I enjoyed a tangy bitterness that had but a hint of dark chocolate. The troll, anxious, watched me intently as I swallowed. It offered a fangy grin to match my toothy own, for the brew's finish was chocolate as well, and skillfully rendered to bring a smile to the face of any beer lover.
"Do you have this bottled?" I asked, eager. "This brew is stupendous!"
The troll's face lit up in humble happiness, and it gifted me with passage over the bridge, and a cold bottle of brew for the road.
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