Iron Horse Brewery's Quilter's Irish Death

(I decided to attempt some Robert E. Howard on this one.)

Ulnine raised his tree of an arm to point down into the green valley, a pleasant mixture of peat and sheep pasture nestled between the arching mountains to the north, the sea on the east, the river on the west, and the rolling forests to the south. In the center, a small hamlet of pointed-roof cottages and a single two-story inn were puffing out dinner-smoke into the budding twilight. The distant wail of annoyed sheep, upset at being driven back to their evening pens, drifted up to the brown-haired man who was squinting intently to where his larger companion was gesturing.

It was a squat, unimpressive stone church that rested perhaps a half a mile to the north of the village proper; and even though the dusk mist were already gathering, the man's azure eyes could still make out the silhouettes of hundreds of gravestones; They surrounded the church like termites swarming about their hive.

"That is the place, Germane," said Ulnine, his voice deep like the rumble of a distant landslide.

Germane flicked his eyes from the church to his companion. The firbolg stood nearly two feet taller than Germane, making him an average eight feet tall (average for a firbolg, anyway). His somewhat bestial face was framed by a powerfully square jaw, adorned with a short goatee; red like the mangy mass of dreadlocks atop his head. Two intimidating fangs peeked their way from between his seriously clamped lips, as if they were trying to stab the often-broken nose just above them.

For his part, Germane had a sort of angular look common to the southern parts of the island, but a rough stubble and a few too many lean days made his cheeks bony, as if his visage were chiseled from some soft stone. He rubbed at his beard in thought. "We'd better hurry down there to that tavern before dark, yes?"

Ulnine's overlarge, almond-shaped eyes grinned green down at the smaller human. He shrugged, three-and-a-half feet of shoulder blades rippling under his scale mail, "If you believe the rumors."

Germane frowned at the disappearing sun, "Better to be safe until we find the truth of the matter." He adjusted his longbow so that it would hug tight across his chest and cloak. "Let's go."

The slope down into the valley was gentle, making the hasty trot of the adventurers easy, if a bit noisy. Weapon sheaths, backpacks, and armor clanked together despite the leather strappings designed to muffle such revealing noise. But the added momentum of gravity pulling downward resulted in heavier footfalls. Needless to say, the retiring shepherd boy beginning his hurried trip home easily heard the pair's approach.

As Germane and Ulnine emerged from a small copse of trees, the young boy was already taking startled steps back and away; His youthful eyes bulged as Ulnine's giant form burst into view.

"Peace!" Germane was quick to shout, "We mean no harm!" He knew that firbolg were widely considered legendary monsters, reavers and beasts, and he wanted to avoid a potentially hostile gathering of ignorant townsfolk. "We are hungry travelers on paths north, looking to make town before dark for food and ale."

The youth, still wide-eyed and trembling, only managed to shake his head slowly in an expression of disbelief. His eyes never left Ulnine.

Germane sighed. There wasn't time for this. "We're not bandits, kid. Watch. Would bandits do this?" He began removing his cloak, bow, and sword.

"Traveling show?" growled Ulnine.

"Yeah. Make it huge, so we only need to do one."

The massive firbolg grinned evilly and grabbed two fistfulls of Germane's clothing, "You got it."

Germane shouted to the child, "Watch!" He turned his head to look back at Ulnine, "Now, not too har-", but the firbolg heaved him off the ground like a doll, took two bounding steps, and then hurled Germane through the air like a living javelin.

The young shepherd's bulging eyes followed Germane's twenty foot ascension, and then they squinted into laughter at the sight of a man face-planting into the soft peat at high velocity. Ulnine's smile parted into a roaring guffaw as Germane staggered to his feet, pushing his shaggy brown hair out of his face and spitting out small bits of moss. The booming firbolg laughter was then joined by the high-pitched cackle of the shepherd boy.

"See?", Germane scraped his fingernails along his tongue, "Would bandits do that?"

The youth's smile faded into a line of cognition. After a moment, he said, "No. I guess you ain't bandits. Come on, I'll show you to the inn once I get poppa's sheep in."

Ulnine glanced about. "What sheep?"

"Oh, they are just about that hillock there. I was looking for a stray. They like to go up the ridge towards the forest for some of the high grasses. But it's too close to dark now." The boy began trotting hurriedly away. "Come on! We need to hurry! The light will be gone soon!"

Germane and Ulnine shared a glance and then broke into a trot of pursuit. "We didn't see any sheep up the hill, I'm afraid. Did we, Ulnine?"

"Nope," said the firbolg, as he picked a bit of mutton from his teeth and grinned.

"Cool it!" Germane hissed.

Firbolg chuckling boomed out once more.

True to the boy's word, the sheep were gathered about the other side of the hillock, lazily munching at some of the nearby grass. With a few high-pitched "Hee-yaaah!"s, the herd began complaining its way back towards town at a leisurely pace. Ulnine clapped his hands together with a deafening slap, and the sheep came to an agreement to move with a bit more alacrity.

As the procession made its way closer to town, the growing twighlight quickly shrunk the world in gloom. A brakish bank of clouds was rolling in over the mountain to the north, shrouding the distant church in shadow as they moved over the vale. A brief, cold wind came as a vanguard, and the sun-warmed land grew banks of mist as the heavy chill pressed down upon it.

"Well, this looks ominous," said Germane as the lights of hamlet houses were swallowed up. The sheep, for their part, silenced themselves as if by some mutual desicion.  The leading child slowed to a stop as the new fog shrouded the last of the town from view. Germane placed a hand on his small shoulder to give him courage, hard as it was to be lost, afraid, and with only strangers and sheep for company.

"What's wrong, kid?" grunted Ulnine, "They're still there, and we're half there already."

The boy jerked his head around in surprise, as if he had forgotten the firbolg which had so terrified him earlier was still there. He shook his head, "It's too dark. They come out when it's this dark." His eyes began taking on their bulging quality again as he scanned the surrounding mists.

"So, it's true then?" mumbled Germane as his eyes joined in the mist-roving. "The dead walk here?"

Ulnine snorted, wincing while massageing the back of his own neck. "I say it's wolves talked up by shepherd's fancy."

Germane frowned up at his companion, "My friend, you always forget-"

A scream echoed out from the near-darkness, high-pitched and strangled, as if something foul had been abrubtly dragged to a place it did not wish to be. It faded into the air like a bad dream, and it must have been the breaking point for the tenative sanity being held by the sheep. In a mass, they began yowling in domestic fear, and then as if on cue, scattered into the darkness till their individual mewling was swallowed up by the mists. All was silent in their wake.

"That's not a good sign," said Germane. He noticed his hand was empty; the boy had feinted away at his feet. The wandering warrior was bending down to slap the youth to, but approaching footsteps brought his hand to the hilt of his short-sword instead.

Ulnine grunted.

Man and firbolg waited as the thing in the mist approached. They both swayed slightly as their muscles tensed and releaxed in anticipation of surprise and danger. Then, the silloutte of a man slowly took shape in the fog, but stopped short of being clearly visible to the two anxious travelers.

"Hello? Are you from the hamlet?" Germane startled hiself with the volume of his own voice in the surrounding silence. "We have a boy here. He's feinted."

The shrouded man did not respond, but two coals of evil red glow appeared where eyes should have been. Two more shapes walked from the mist to join the first, and they too stared with devlish light

"Like I was saying," said German as he slowly, silently, drew his short-sword from its sheath, "You always forget that you're a shephard's facy yourself."

Ulnine gave another of his grunts. "Fancy shutting it?" His massive two-handed blade cleared the scabberd in a challenging ring, "COME ON!" the firbolg bellowed, and in a frenzy of lashing limbs, the red-eyed shades did.

They were gangly things; mobile rot that took mannish form. The flesh of each seemed ready to flake off at the slightest touch, but none did even as the creatures charged, howling frothily with their blackened lips; and ever did the red eyes burn.

Two went for Ulnine first, and the audibile whoosh of the firbolg's blade split one in half at the waist, torso and legs tumbling to the ground in a tangle of limbs and spilt organs. Greyish blood splattered across Germane's face, stinging his eyes. He barely recovered his vision in time to raise his left elbow into the charge of the monster attacking him. Half-blind, the wanderer fended off clawing talons while thrusting his blade under his own guard and into the fiend's torso. The sharp metal sunk in hungrily, but if the creature minded the peircing of its bowels, it did not show sign; it continued to flail and bite at Germane, teeth grating on the warrior's hardened bracer.

Frustrated, Germane bowed his shoulder to the thing and shoved explosively, sending the creature stumbling backwards until it lost balance and fell to the ground. To the right, Ulnine chopped the second creature with a barbaric, overhead swing; his sword ate its way through shoulder bone, through ribs, through blood,sinew, and spine, until it fastened itself stubbornly in the creature's pelvis. Again, the blow did not seem to dampen the devil's blood lust. It frantically clawed at the blade in an attempt to pull itself along the weapon's length to get at the roaring firbolg, roaring in the effort to wrench the blade free. Meanwhile, the upper half of the first creature had crawled forward to bite uselessly at the giant's armored legs.

Yet Germane could spare his friend no time, for his own enemy was regaining its feet, and the shepherd boy was still helplessly oblivious on the ground beneith him. In a quick bound, Germane closed with the rising creature, akward in its undeath, and he chopped savagely at its right leg. The reddened eyes and hungrily sneering mouth revealed no pain, but the demon toppled sideways anyway as its shorn knee buckled, unable to support weight. It flailed about in the peat while Germane retreated to drag the boy away from its searching grasp.

Ulnine abandoned his stuck blade and reverted to primal instinct. He cocked back his right arm, and punched the offending creature in the face. The ham-sized fist slammed home with a sickening crunch, the creature's face snapping back as the red glow vanished from its cavernous eyes. It collapsed to the ground, motionless. Grinning savegly in anticipated victory, the firbolg then brough his fist smashing down on top of the skull of the ankle-biter, and that creature also went listless.

Seizing the idea, Germane strode back to where the final creature was still futily attempting to stand. It scowled at him in hatred, dead lips curling over blood-stained teeth, yellow saliva squeezing through the few gaps like juice from squeezed grapes, unholy eyes focused in nightmarish ferocity. A strong thrust sent Germane's blade into its eyesocket, and that unholy red faded as decrepid ichor sprayed out over the biting steel.

Only Ulnine's ragged breathing broke the silence which settled back on them like a heavy weight. Veterans of countless battles, both warriors quickly cleaned their weapons on the peat and returned them to their scabbards; Unlnine then tossed the unconscious boy over his shoulder like a sheaf of wheat.

"Should we wake him up?" Ulnine glanced around the darkening fog. "I can't see any trace of that hamlet."

Germane shook his head. "No matter. Night is upon us, and he would be just as lost as we are." The Irishman knew they needed to get somewhere more fortified. If more of those things (assuming there were more) found them again, the outcome could be drastically different. "We know the hamlet is north, and we know the largest mountains are north. So perhaps an echo might lead us in the right direction?"

"Or direct everything out there to us," said Ulnine while he continued to scan the perimeter.

"Yes. But we can't wander aimless in the night, either. I think we might get away with my bird call; it's loud enough."

"I think you're a moron."

"Thanks, Ulnine. Especially considering when you're drunk, I have to make sure you don't eat rocks and die."

"Those rocks looked like pastries!"

"They were in a streambed! Why would they be pastries? Who made them? Mama Catfish? Ahh, forget it- we're wasting time. Get ready for a wee bit of a run."

Ulnine huffed. "You're the one with small legs."

Germane shook his head and raised his hands to his mouth, palms cupped together. He blew a long, wailing note, like that of a loon, and it returned from every direction; but strongest off to the right.

"We'd better move quick." Germane imagined dozens of gangly demons turning their red eyes in their direction, peiricing the fog with vile perception. The two adventurers took off running, eyes alert for more attackers.

Yet their fears seemed unfounded, and both man and firbolg sighed in relief when the lights of the hamlet broke once more through the mist.

"Head for the big one," whispered Germane "it's probably the inn."

The "big one" was a humble two-level of wooden construction. In Dublin perhaps, it would have been a minor place of ill-repute in the poorer areas of the city, but here where it was the only business, it dwarfed the farmers' humble peat homes.

Ulnine tried the door and found it bolted, though the murmur of many voices could be heard within. He pounded at it, rattling the building and drawing a few started screams from inside.

"Open up!" shouted Germane, "Weary travelers in search of shelter! We have a shepherd boy who we found-"

Moving locks could be plainly heard, and then the door flung open, spilling warm light into the chilling night. There was an outrage of voice:

"-mustened be opened!"
"It might be my son! Please let it be my son!"
"The things will come!"
"Shut the door, damn your eyes!"

Then a voice of authority drowned out the others. "All of you! Quiet! Bring them inside and secure the door quickly. Quickly!"

The inn was a humble establishment, featuring a cozy common from for about thirty people. However with the entire population crammed inside, the villagers had difficulty in backing away from Ulnine, who caused a bit of a stir as he bent over to enter the small doorframe and then stood again at his towering height.

The firbolg held up the limp form of the shepard youth. "This belong to anyone?" He looked a little like a hawker trying to sell a melon. A woman near the crackling fire keeled over, drawing a few more excited screams.

"Enough with the racket!" said the authority, and a few villegers shuffled this way and that to reveal a short, frail, old man with the longest beard Germane had ever seen. He was short, almost child sized, and his bones seemed more like sticks hiding under dried sheep skin. A stooped back contributed slightly to the shortness, and it brought the wipping end of his white beard within brushing distance of the floorboards. Yet peering from that aincent face were eyes dark with experience and confidence.

"Thank you, strangers," the old man bowed his head (and his beard piled up a little on the floor), "for returning Emil to us. His mother, as you can see, has been on the verge of storm since he was late coming in from the pastures." He turned his head to the side, "Take them both to a room upstairs and lay them down." Immediately, several people swept forward to receive the unconscious boy and whisked him away upstairs. The group with the woman by the fire followed closely behind.

"Now then, it's only right we respond to kindness with kindness. Come this way and we'll get you some food and spirits to warm belly and heart." The aincent one turned and walked towards what Germane assumed to be the kitchen, and the crowd parted before him. Germane and Ulnine followed slowly im his wake, each with pleased grins despite the staring eyes and awkward silence surrounding them.

Some unlucky villigers were shooed away from a bench and table, and almost instantly two frothy mugs of brew and a spread of mutton, cheese, and soda bread was before them. The old man sat across from them, watching politely while his guests sated their hungers. Around them, conversations began to spring up, adding some comfort of regularity to the room's atmosphere.

Swallowing a mouthful of mutton, Germane raised his tankard and enjoyed the smooth feel of the brew as it quenched his pallet. It had a bitterly sour sort of flavor that was full, rich, and immensly satisfying. He was an avid beersman, but he could not quite decide if the brew tasted more like a dark ale or more like a lighter porter; perhaps a bit of both. Pleasently indecisive, the wanderer swallowed and enjoyed the bubbliness of the finish and its tangy bitter memory.

"A fine brew!" gasped Ulnine, his tankard already nearly empty.

The village elder grinned a gummy smile. "We call it the Irish Death. No, not because of things out there. But because a few of those will make even the most hardened man dead to the world till morning- and then wish the world had just finished him off!" He let out a sharp, wheezing guffaw.

"So-" Germane took a large bite of bread, "What are those things that wander here?"

"Evil that walks. A plague cast upon us, undeserved." The elder's hard eyes softened. "If you wish, I'll tell you of our sorrow."

"We wish it." said Ulnine, holding his tankard up for a refill.

"As you wish, then," said the elder with a bow of his head, "It began......"

TO BE CONTINUED.... (When a beer with a proper name is found)

Pabst Blue Ribbon

It seems that every great trade has its iconic worker. Restaurants have chefs, airlines have pilots, and academia and religion have old, bearded men. But in the end the world is like prison: if you're not great yourself, you're probably someone's bitch.

For example, in the case of the white-hatted food maker, they are supported by a team of prep-cooks, dishwashers, and servers; an entire team devoted to ensuring that the cook has everything needed, where it's needed, and when it's needed. Which isn't to say cooks don't work hard, but they are much higher on the totem pole than the poor sap in the dishpit. When the cook needs something, you go, and when you need something, prepare to be mocked or lectured.

Yet when it comes to unpleasant employment, soggy food floating in dubiously colored water is an easy gig compared to the bitch-dom available in masonry.

A mason's bitch (or hod-carrier, traditionally) is a creature of the elements. They mix together earth and water to create glue; they gulp down dusty air while endlessly carrying rocks from one pile to another, and they feel the atmosphere's ethereal embrace while perched upon rickety scaffolding over pits of re-bar spikes that look straight out of Mortal Kombat; they feel the fire of celestial fury on bared skin, long since fried an unhealthy pink by days outside in the hot sun.

Imagine, if you would, a giant, circular-saw blade, about the size of the plate your family uses to serve either turkey or ham, and serrated with menace. In the morning, its diamond-tipped edges gleam in apparent friendly greeting. You might brush off a bit of the red brick dust that cakes the engine like blood, and then you flip the switch. The powerful electric motor click on silently, overpowered by the almost instantaneous whir of the blade as it begins to cut through the air. At full speed, the machine gives off a dull whine, and the cooling water that is pumped onto the blade is flung off in a fine spray that endlessly hisses the day away (often soaking you down to the boxers).

It's a blurred circle of death, spitting water in ominous clouds of vapor.

For the most bitchy of the hod-carriers, eight hours of the day is spent feeding the malevolent beast an endless stream of brick, block, and stone. The blade gives out a hungry, teeth-rattling shriek upon contact with stone, and it is a sound that you feel as much as you hear. If there were an auditory cue for the end of the world, the sound of saw on rock would herald dark Leviathan's triumphant birth from Hell's vaulted inferno.

Ear plugs are a must.

In similar biblical badness, the clear water flung about joyously by the spinning blade turns brick red, like the muted sinew of a resting corpse. The foul mud covers your clothing, threatening to kill your washing machine upon ingestion, like cyanide.

Necessity of precision forces the hod-carrier to deftly maneuver fingers and arms around the blade; basic cuts will keep your fingers away by perhaps five inches, but more advanced and artistic shapes will narrow that distance to a half-inch. To add to the fun, the blade will sometimes catch on an impurity, and the power of the machine will wrench the offending brick from your hands and out the back of the sawing table like a cubist bowling ball.

Don't hold on too tight!, my foreman told me, Ha! Ha!

So after the hot day of menial exhaustion and ever-present subtle danger, a bitch finds a desire for a beer. In honor of the unpublicized labor of bitches everywhere, I decided to review the beer which proudly states that it is union made: Pabst Blue Ribbon. And who knows more about being someone's bitch than the Unions?

The only praise I heard of the beer is that it is incredibly refreshing after a hot day's work, and said refreshment comes at a great, affordable price. The cynical translation: The beer is kinda like water, and that is probably why it's so cheap.

The problem with cynicism? It's depressing when you're right.

Pabst Blue Ribbon slides into your mouth with a smooth, bubbly feel that is a lot like what you would get if you combined the carbonated feel of mineral water with the liquid texture of milk. There isn't a whole lot of flavor at this point, and unfortunately, the body of the brew does little to add to the drinking experience.

The body is light, almost distressingly subtle. A sort of light hoppy-ness combines with a muted skunk to form a rather unsatisfactory experience for anyone who drinks beer for the flavor. The brew leaves a lingering sweetness after the swallow, like the rice water you used to drink back in college or high school.

But it gets you drunk, and since that is probably the point of most beer drinking, you can't go wrong with the budget price that Pabst offers. So if you're in a bar or casino, and they say something along the lines of "2 bucks for a tub", you really can't go wrong with the cheap intoxication.  Looking for flavor and quality? Look elsewhere.

P.S.: Apparently, Pabst has the same strategy as big tobacco: start 'em young.

Palouse Falls Brewery's Crimson Pride

The smoke of my cigarette burned into my lungs, withering healthy cellular structure like newspaper set aflame. They say you can learn to like anything, even pain; though I never understood why someone would want to. Still, my body needed that choking smoke, and not just because of the chemicals. I needed that pain to distract myself from the reality that constantly bombarded my eyes; a curtain to draw when the light becomes too intense.

I exhaled slowly, emotions billowing away with the hazy smoke; love, anger, and sadness, drifting away between the morning sunbeams of the half-open venetians; Only did I allow logic and cold reason to remain.

The last dying ember was struggling to devour the filter, so I made a new splotch on a dirty ashtray- a final stream of smoke trailing up like a white flag. A few short paces away from the booth in which I sat, a corpse curled bloodily around the base of a swiveling barstool.  At first glance, one might take him for a simple drunk who had simply done what drunks do: his knees were bent, clasped together and against the ground, angled away from the bar and towards where I sat regarding him. It had an awkward look, though, as his hips were aligned ass to hell and cock to heaven, his left shoulder was crunched against the bar itself, and his right hand rested lightly on his gut. His mouth was even open in what could have been a loud snore.

Yet the spray of crimson, ceiling to floor, marked the final resting place(s?) of the poor bastard's head. A .44 above the right eye. Boom. The gun lay in its own drunken stupor on the counter-top next to a half-empty pint glass, recovering from its own night of shameful excess.

The uniformed officer who drove me to the bar reentered the building; his youthful face was clam and business-like.

"Sir," he said, "Forensics already did their thing, though they want that gun once you're done looking around. And it looks like the body-baggers are getting tired of waiting to get in here."

"Who discovered the body?" I asked.

"Ah, Mr. Douglas Hinter, the owner; found him here in the morning."

"Who closed?"

"Sir?"

I sighed and began rifling through my pockets in search of my smokes, "The bar! Who closed the bar last night?"

"I think Mr. Hinter's daughter, Annie Delwayne."

"So she's married. Okay. How do you know she closed last night?"

"Forensics spent a lot of time on the bar computer. I was standing guard at the door and overheard them."

My eyes flicked from the young officer to the black box of a ordering computer that sat behind the counter. I needed to have a look at that. I heaved myself out of the booth. "I want a look at that myself."

While the computer booted up (Why would Forensics shut it down? Habit?), I lit a smoke and took another calming pull. Homicide just wasn't the way to get a day started. The computer seemed to agree. Its hard drive seemed to balk at the task, crunching and grinding loudly.

"What are you looking for, sir?"

The menu screen popped up, and I began punching my gloved fingers at buttons. "You see that half-empty beer, there? The victim's?"

"Yes, sir."

"I want to know what kind of beer that was. It doesn't look domestic."

The officer peered at the beer.

I spotted the menu for the bar's order history and pushed at it eagerly. "See, I bet you Forensics will rule this suicide, and all the facts do add up to that; the side head wound, the lack of a struggle, and I bet shot powder on his right hand. Hell, he might even own that damn cannon there."

"So what is important about the beer, sir?"

My eyes flicked down the order history: A pint of Palouse Falls Crimson Pride (paid in cash, damn!). I opened a few drawers behind the counter until I found a clean glass. "The beer is a microbrew out of Pullman, Washington," I explained as I navigated my way down the wall of taps until I found the tear drop symbol I was looking for. "And in my experience, most people who choose not to drink domestic swill are beer lovers."

The officer was silent for a moment as helped myself to the tap. Finally, he asked, "So you're saying the dead guy was a beer lover? How is that important?"

I held the glass up to the streams of light arrowing through the closed blinds, admiring it's reddish amber color while the head calmed for a moment. "Stick with me and you might get yourself into some plain clothes, kid. The point is: if our John No-Head over there is a beer lover, and this happens to be a good beer; Why is the glass only half empty?"

"Because you're a pessimist?"

I guffawed before I could stop myself. "No. Why is it half full, then? Anyway, the point is: why isn't the beer ALL gone?"

The young uniform leaned against the bar to muse on that while I finally lifted the glass and took a gulp. The Crimson Pride was a red ale by the look, and I was a bit surprised by the calm, almost flavor-neutral first contact.

However, the body came to the beer's rescue and pleased my pallet with a hoppy, ale-ish carbonated burn. It was like the beer was a Trojan horse: it doesn't do anything as you tip it past your enameled gates, but once inside, flavor strikes like a host of angry Ageans.

"Oh! I see!", said the uniform as I swallowed, and the brew's dry, hoppy finish flowed about my mouth. It ended a bit like an IPA, but gentler.

The officer continued, "If that guy was a beer lover, and he was planning on killing himself; why wouldn't he finish the last beer of his life?"

I set the glass down with a loud thump. "Precisely! And this beer is good. Quite good. Or at least good enough to finish before you die, I'd say." I reached for my smokes, realized I had one lit already in the ash tray, and so hastily picked that one back up. "I have a hunch that someone helped our friend here pull that trigger, and I'm going to find out who." I began striding purposefully towards the door, questions and angles of inquiry already bouncing off the inside of my skull.

"Detective! Sir! Where are we going?"

"To talk with Mrs. Delwayne! I want to know some things about this bar!" I shoved the bar door open and sunshine blazed upon me. I had a case!

Deschutes Brewery's Abyss Imperial Stout

Often when arguing about political and philosophical discussions, I become so involved in what I perceive to be true that I become lost in a hungry abyss of my own hubris. This can lead to a series of misadventures that usually end with a certain degree of melodrama. But after one particularly heated debate over the interpretation of a worker's strike in Spain, a tear in space and time sprung into existence directly behind me, and I was quickly swallowed up. I assume only a slowly spinning computer chair remained behind as evidence of my abduction.

I suppose any attempt at description is ironic in nature, as on the other side of existence there is but non-existence. How does one seek to define that which, by definition, is indefinable? I cannot offer you a categorization of my sensory experiences, for upon my arrival to that realm, I lost them (for one cannot exist in oblivion, after all), but still, at some level, I was aware.

I was alone. And all was black.

Not that I saw the color, mind, for I had no eyes, or a head in which to house them. But still, I was in a colossal, endless, empty empty black. Whatever that was me in that place quailed at its enormity.

Yet even in that antithesis of everything, I was joined by the voice which ever watches over what I do. That voice which attempts to halt evil and scolds for unintended crimes.

Stop being a pussy, it said.

The same four words that had once pulled me from the depths of depression now yanked my sanity from the slavering jaws of madness; I fear I had been but moments from losing myself, my soul scattered away past the very edges of the universe.

I think, therefore I am.

My self solidified and confident once again, I noticed only after an accidental brush of fingertips on thigh that I had form once more. With muscle memory alone, I raised my hand and waved it before my eyes, but the dark void contained no light to bounce from my pendulum palm to me eyes.

Foul jellies!

Then I realized that only I could give myself eyes, so then, perhaps I could give myself something by which to perceive?

Let there be light!

And I found myself in a pub, or at least, the bar of a pub. A line of dark brown, high-backed stools sat patiently before a rich, dark maple bartop. A shaggy, black-haired man in jeans and a white T-shirt with a large peace sign on the back occupied one of the seats. At the moment, he was turned away from me, facing the petite Japanese woman who was calmly wiping a pint glass behind the counter.

Around the rather abruptly existing bar, the blackness hemmed in; it gave the appearance that the humble pub hung suspended in a vast empty space. There were no walls, and as I turned to gain a panorama of my surroundings, I saw behind me, opposite the bar, a brightly glowing speck. Due to a lack of an object to use for perspective, I was unsure if the speck were tiny and near-at-hand, or unfathomably enormous but a vast distance away.

I sort of waved my hand at it stupidly- to see if it might even be right in front of my face.

"Don't bother," said a warm voice from behind me, "That thing is waaaay out there."

My head jerked around to find the black-haired man looking over his shoulder at me. He had a dark tan complexion, as if Arabic or some variety of middle easterner. His mouth looked accustomed to speaking, and his eyes aggressively glowed a startling white.

"Come have a drink," He said, patting the stool next to him before turning back to where the Japanese woman stood, raising an arm in the universal request for service.

I took the offered seat as the barkeep approached (three steps down the bar), her brown eyes calm yet smiling. My new companion looked at me, offering me to go ahead, so I ordered a beer.

"What beer would you like?" Her voice was melodious, even when occupied by trivialities like the spoken word.

I said, "I want a beer that evokes this place. Something you can lose yourself in."

"You want a Deschutes Abyss," said He of the white eyes, and I decided He would probably know best. After nodding my head in acceptance of the recommendation, the bartender mentioned that it would have been her choice as well.

I decided it was time to meet my drinking companion. Turning towards him and extending my hand; "Hi, my name's Gage."

He turned, regarded me for half-a-second, then took his hand from his glass of red wine to shake mine. "Jesus of Nazareth," he said. 

I took his hand as an instinctive part of the social custom, but then held it for a moment in shock. He grinned, his eyes becoming joyful slits of white light and his flashing smile was almost as brilliant due to the contrast with his dark skin and black goatee. "Yes. That one."

I'm not sure how long it took me to close my mouth and say, "Nice to meet you," but it was about then that my beer arrived.

The brew took the color of the vast space that encompassed the bar that was nowhere. It was almost as if a liquid void were held tame by the clear glass. The minute head had a brown hue, reminiscent of other imperial stouts (and oatmeals). A sweet smell of mild licorice malt wafted from it, and I realized that it was the only smell in that bar; previously, it had smelled of neutrality.

The barkeep refilled Jesus' wine, he nodded his thanks and then turned to watch me take my first drink of the brew he had recommended.

The cold, dark liquid started smooth, but it had a thickness to it that was as near chewy as that particular state of matter could get. 

Abruptly, a hearty licorice flavor filled my pallet. Now as far as candy goes, I hate red vines, and black licorice makes me gag, but this taste was good; all the impurities of that candy's strange taste were burned away to a state of perfection.

The licorice then gave way to a firm, dark chocolaty deliciousness that lingered a moment before transforming into a final coffee farewell.

"This is my favorite beer-. Ever." I said in admiration.

Jesus smiled knowingly, sipped his wine, spun his stool to face that speck which floated an unknowable distance behind us, and then indicated with a twirl of a raised finger that I should follow suite.

I spun and my eyes were again captured by the enigmatic point.

"This is creation," said the Nazarene, "The moment; the beginning of existence itself. We're going to watch it happen from the best seats in the unformed universe."

I was flabbergasted. "Why? I mean- not that it doesn't sound incredible- but why bring me here? Why show me?"

Jesus chuckled happily, "Why not? This is my Father's great masterpiece of light and sound; of primal forces, which as we speak, do not even exist yet. Surely you can understand an artist's desire to have an audience for the great unveiling? And as for you, it was a simple lottery, and you just happened to be the luckiest guy in creation- congrats."

He pulled a large blunt case from his pocked and picked out a fatty. He lit it, inhaled, let out an involuntary coughing gag in a cloud of smoke, took another puff, and then coughed slightly again as he passed it to me: "Here. It's about to start, and trust me, you want to be blazed for this shit."

We smoked, drank, and laughed till the blunt was but ashes in a tray. Then Jesus- eyes ever-glowing fiercely white- pointed his hand like a gun at the distant speck.

His thumb twitched down.

BANG!