Posted by Anonymous on July 02, 2001 at 19:22:25:
In Reply to: RatFest 2001 Win a trip to RatFest SOB Story... posted by Skotrat on June 24, 2001 at 08:49:43:
I should never have picked up that half-buried bottle that I spotted
when I was leaving. The flip top sealed my fate. Just too tempting for
a beer guy to ignore. It is said that life is composed of millions of
small choices that add up to what we call existence. I have made one
that I have lived to regret.
I bent over the little washed out slope next to the cracked stepping
stones which lead to the chaff covered road through the graveyard that
holds most of two generations of my family. I was in a solemn mood
having just visited the grave of my Grandfather for the first time. It
was the first time because I had been unable to attend his funeral a
two years before on account of illness, and I have not quite gotten
over not having been there. I wiggled the bottle back and forth and it
slipped out of the ground gently. As I squatted there I brushed the
dirt from the label which was badly deteriorated. I could not make
anything out but decided to take it with me.
When I finally arrived home, I was too tired to care about my find and
casually placed it on the bookshelf next to my antique hydrometer and
copy of the current issue of Zymurgy. I showered, drank the last bottle
of the Dunkle I had made in the fall, and went to bed early. I was
headed out of town early the next day on business. Or, I thought I was.
The noise awoke me violently. I didn’t know what the noise was, but I
sprang up and looked out the window reflexively. There was nothing
there, but in my groggy state I was realizing that the noise seemed to
have been inside the house. I went out into the great room and turned
on the light. Everything appeared in order. As I shook off the sleep my
curiosity on my day’s find returned. I went over to the shelf and took
down the bottle. I examined the faded label under my big magnifying
glass and could only make out a bit of a handwritten note that said
"DON’T" and then it was unintelligible then said "2001".
That’s when I noticed that the curtain on the window was open. I don’t
normally leave curtains open, but I probably was just too tired and
Dunkled to care that night. As I pulled the drawstring, I saw the
scratches in the glass. Ragged, yet parallel in the glass. Bending down
I could see that the grooves were very deep. It looked almost like an
animal scratched the glass, but on the second floor? Deep marks like a
glasscutter? I’ll have check that out when I get back.
The bottle looked old. The glass was clearly hand blown. The label said
"2001". Maybe a lot number? It is the year 2001, but this bottle is
very old. And if the bottle was as old as it looked, lot number would
make no sense. It looked to be pint size and had crude looking swing
top. A hand blown bottle with a swing top? I fetched my favorite mug, a
nice glass mug I brought back from Barvaria, and popped the top. Sniff.
Malt. Ahhhh. The scent the hop bouquet exquisite. Of course I poured.
It looked beautiful in the glass. Copper in color with no haze. A nice
creamy head. Probably a bitter I think as I take my first sip.
The alcohol was warming and inviting. Dopplebock. Except a little too
much hops for the style. Wow, a wonderfully made and enjoyable beer. I
drink in hearty swallows. Warming indeed. I was breaking out in a sweat
about half way down the mug and suddenly I decided that I should’ve
been more cautious drinking graveyard brew. But, I am a Rat and
drinking beer is what I do.
Tap tap. Tap tap. I hear the noise outside the window. Tap tap. The
same window. "Probably a limb or a ...". Suddenly it is dark.
"shit!" Tap tap. TAP TAP. TAP! TAP! TAP! The energy drains from my
body. TAP. TAP. TAP. TAP. My mind races. "This is a dream. I am
trapped inside the Raven." TAP! TAP! TAP! TAP! Cold sweat breaks out
on my face and back.
It is funny when the power goes out. You don’t realize how much noise
is about until you hear the silence. Terrifying silence as black as the
darkness. Except TAP TAP. TAP TAP. I try to stand but I immobilized by
terror or intoxication. Suddenly, a light grew outside and the window
shattered around me. The shrieking was my own.
Then that I saw it. "MUHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!" the ghastly apparition
bellowed. And the smell! A dark ominous odor. It is familiar but
intense: urine and farts. "Who are you. What do you want with me." I
croaked out, almost unable to breathe or speak.
"You Fool!" it hissed. "You have destroyed EVERYTHING!
hissssssssss." "What? What do you mean?" I ask. "SILENCE FOOL!
HISSSSSSSS! You have broken the covenant of Bachuss by drinking from
the sacramental bottle before ITS TIME! HISSSSSSSSSSSSSSS!". "I do not
know of what you speak! Please leave me in peace. Please I beg you!" I
sobbed. Then my tormentor wailed a tormented scream such as I have
never heard or imagined. "AAAAAAEEEEEEEEEEEE. It is no more! hissss."
it gnashed. "You have destroyed the path to enlightenment. HISSSSS.
You have rent the fabric of brewing from its top to bottom. The elixir
of the gods will be no more. AAAAAAAAEEEEEEEE!"
"Please. Please." I plead. "Who are you? I have meant no harm. I am a
BrewRat. I treasure the same elixer you lament. My fellow Rats and I
will not let this happen." "MUHAHAHAHA! YOU. FOOL!" it recoiled and
then lunged forward. The hideous bloodshot eyes were not over two feet
from my own. "HISSSsss. You have no idea what you have done. Do you
think barley, hops and single celled organisms can create magical
elixir on its own? HISSSSSS!"
It began to speak in low tones. I sat in terror, unable to respond.
"Bachuss was not myth. When temporal matters became boring, a select
group of Gauls were blessed with the presence of the brewing magic."
He paused, "A golden chalice of beer was to be guarded as a symbol of
their devotion. By protecting the chalice, the spirit was preserved for
all and brewers everywhere were filled by its magic! Every two hundred
years there is a new anointing with the old vintage and then a new
batch is brewed and laid down for aging. HISSSSSSSSS. WHY DO I WASTE MY
BREATH?"
I still can not move. The odor had immobilized me. Obviously more than
a brewer: a Fart Artist as well. I am breathing heavy, gasping lungs
full of the rancid air which surrounded me.
"YOU! You call yourself a BrewRat. You have no idea what you have
done!" the apparition cried out. "The BrewRats were to be anointed
with the vintage of 1801. YOU were the link in the eternal chain!
HISSS!" "H-H-HHow can this be?" I croak, "I know nothing of this!"
"HISSSSS! SILENCE FOOL!" it recoiled and grew larger still.
"MUAHAHAHAHAHA! The last anointing was in New Hampshire on a small
farm North of Portsmouth. Does this mean anything to you??
"Well, my family moved to Missouri from New Hampshire in the 1860s.
That was my Great grandfather and his family looking to start fresh."
I mustered the courage to announce. "YESSSSSSSSS!" hissed my
tormentor. "Your Great great-grandfather was one of the anointed. The
anointing passes Father to Son. Your Grandfather was the last surviving
descendant of the anointed when he died and took the secrets with him
AAAAAAAEEEEEEE!" I was beginning to be regain my senses now and was
emboldened enough to ask "but, what about my Father? Why could the
chain not pass to him?" "Hissssss....that teatotaler...hisssss...."
the apparition’s hissing was beginning to get mournful. "I realized
there was a problem when your Father joined the Peace Corps and
renounced meat. The only hope was to accomplish a generation anointing
skip. aaaaaaeeeeee." he sighed. "This only happened once before when
Charlemagne had the last anointed garroted because he called him the
Old French equivalent of’ ‘fatso’. That was close."
Suddenly it all hit me. All those times Grandpa tried to get me to take
him to see the old family graveyard in New Hampshire. And I was too
busy to make the trip. "My Beer! What have I done!" I cried out.
"AAAAEEEE! Your eyes are opened now FOOL!" he shrieked. "But, the
bottle in the dirt. And who are YOU anyway?" I asked.
"I am Bacchus himself! FOOL! AAAAAAEEEEEEE!" he shrieked. "Drinking
the anointment beer got my attention. I had not paid much attention
since that Charlemagne incident. I have been into wine pretty much
since then." He cut me off before I could speak "I am here to give you
one last chance. Your Grandfather did not pass the recipe on to you.
You must go to New Hampshire for Ratfest and wait. When the label on
the Chalice bottle is legible, you will be able to read what to do."
I interrupted "Chalice bottle? What happened to the Golden Chalice.".
"Well, that was your Great Grandfather’s idea." Bacchus replied. "He
thought flip tops were ‘snazzy’. He replaced the Golden Chalice with a
flip top he made himself. Look at the bottom." I turned it over and
read the inscription "FRED. 1901. ... I see."
I continue, "Bacchus, I know you mean well, but can’t you get some
other Rat to do this? There is no way I am getting to Ratfest this
year. The family. The job. The money thing. I just can’t pull it off."
He shrieked "AAAAAAAEEEEEEEEE! Ever since your family got in on the
anointment it has been nothing but HEADACHES! HISSSSSSSSSssssss. It is
of no consequence to me. I have my own HERMS system that I made out the
boilers from ships I ‘borrowed’ from the Bermuda Triangle.
MUHAHAHAHAHAHAHA! Just forget about it. MUHAHAHAHAHA", he chortled
icily.
Suddenly again my blood began to run cold. "What? What happens if I
don’t go? Why does it have to be me?" I asked sheepishly.
"HISSSSSSsssss. It is you because you are CHOSEN. The bottle found YOU
because you are CHOSEN. You have no say in this matter. What happens?
It already is happening! The chain has been broken! The question is
will you be brewer enough to restore the chain and preserve the
annointing? See for yourself." he held out a bony finger and pointed
toward the computer.
I had not notice the power return, but the computer was booting up as
he spoke and I went over and sat down. I typed
"http://www.skotrat.com/brc1.cfm" and looked in amazement.
+---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------+
| Skotrat’s Brew Rat Chat Homebrewer’s Virtual Pub |
| |
| Nathi on 27-Jun-01 at 11:02 PM CDT @ 165.127.8.254 |
| Bite Me? Cruz. You know that you love my Medival Mead with lemon grass. |
| |
| Cowan on 27-Jun-01 at 11:04 PM CDT @ 209.75.137.55 |
| I am with Nathi. If we are to prevail at NH*C next year, we must shoot for
|
| lower gravities. I say anything over 1.038 is just wrong. |
| |
| SkotRat on 27-Jun-01 at 11:05 PM CDT @ 24.147.52.29 |
| Finally, you dickwads are making some sense. I have been working on this |
| Recipe for a light lager. B-26 me baby! OG 1.030. It will rock man. 3% ABV!
|
| Fuck Yeah! |
| |
| Cowan on 27-Jun-01 at 11:07 PM CDT @ 209.75.137.55 |
| We will kick ass Skot. That B-26 will rock. YOU are the MAN! |
| |
| bd? on 27-Jun-01 at 11:07 PM CDT @ 12.14.81.34 |
| I knew a high gravity beer girl. Lotta Inher and I drank until we puked. |
| HAHAHA! I kill me! High Gravity! HAHAHAHAHA! |
| |
| Mikewieser on 27-Jun-01 at 11:08 PM CDT @ 12.14.81.34 |
| Hey guys. Anybody want this old Imperial Stout I have? I’m going to dump it.
|
| It doesn’t do anything but get me wasted. And it tastes almost as bad as a
|
| barley wine. YUK! |
+---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------+
I sat in silence. Stunned and confused. "Bacchus, this is very
serious. I can’t go to New Hampshire. You can’t let this happen..."
"HISSSSSSSS! It is of no consequence to me. If you do not follow your
destiny, you alone will bear the weight of the knowledge of what has
been lost." he said somewhat indifferently.
"I am leaving. You bore me fool!" Bacchus announced suddenly. "I have
a wine dinner on Mount Olympus to tend to. Do as you like." And
suddenly he was gone. "MUHHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA" I hear as I look around.
Glass was everywhere and the place was a mess. I go back to bed. I will
wake up from this dream soon. But I can not sleep. And then the alarm
buzzes to life.
Glass is everywhere. This is no dream.
What little money I had in the beer fund is gone now. Windows are not
cheap. I have only my burden left. I will drown my sorrows at the pub.
I do love my Irish pub. The place is bustling and I take my seat at the
bar. "What’ll ya have?" she asks. "Guinness." I reply. She returns
with a pilsner of crystal clear something. "HAHA. No, I asked for a
Guinness." I said. "Quit jerking me around. That will be $6." she
retorted. "I’m not jerking you around. I want Guinness Stout like I
always have. You know: nitrogen tap. Creamy head." I replied. "Ha Ha.
Buddy. They quit making that crap a month ago. And thank yer dear stars
for that laddie! Try this, you’ll love the Guinness Honey Light".
I should never have picked up that half-buried bottle that I spotted
when I was leaving. The flip top sealed my fate. Just too tempting for
a beer guy to ignore. It is said that life is composed of millions of
small choices that add up to what we call existence. I have made one
that I have lived to regret.