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Josh had sat contently near the roaring campfire, examining the dancing
flickering flames and the crackling of the firewood and considered the day's events. Chester his college room mate
had urged him to go on this trip. "A few days roughing it in the Canadian woods would do you good" he
had energetically cajoled, until Josh finally, as he often did, gave in.
One of the highlights of the trip as Chester had so enthusiastically explained was the proximity of the small award
winning micro-brewery, which despite being miles of the beacon track still managed to attract swarms of beer drinkers
each and every day, all in search of the perfect pint. Josh could never understand this quest, as he had always
considered beer to be an insipid gassy liquid. Yet, despite this, after quickly setting up camp this morning with
Chester still enthusiastically harping on they had both trekked the mile and visited the brewery.
As they approached Josh noted that it was nothing more than an old shack, with several large barrels in back. Yet
despite its appearance, as he had been informed, dozens Josh of seemingly educated rationale folks had also made
the trudge through forests and were jubilantly sitting on dirty old benches and tables are drinking large glasses
of the stuff. Josh reluctantly accompanied Chester inside and ordered two of the samplers. Within a few minutes
two old cork trays each carrying six small glasses in various hues of brown were presented to them. They returned
outside and found an empty table and Josh had and watched on amazed as Chester keenly drank and spurted phrases
like. "Well hopped, beautifully balanced, and malty." Josh attempted to do the same, but found the task
unbearable. All of a sudden a lofty man dressed in faded overalls and sporting a grey beard and a balding head
took a seat next to them. He had seemed contented at Chester's consumption, but looked a little dismayed at Chester's
six still nearly full glasses.
"My name is Wilkins" he had informed them. "I am the brewer here…I see that you don't like our regular
offerings." He eyed once more the full glasses and seemed a little disheartened. Then a broad grin transformed
his wrinkled face as he placed down on the table two large glass jugs. "Then please accept these here gifts…Our
special brew…I like everyone who comes here to be satisfied." With that he got up, slapped Josh heartedly
on his back and walked off whistling to himself.
Chester had quickly begun drinking his prize almost immediately upon completing the mile trudge back to the campsite.
Within a couple of hours his jug was empty and was in a jovial drunken stupor in the tent, obnoxiously snoring.
As nightfall began to silently creep in Josh sat there determined to understand the attraction this local brew
held over people, and as the new moon lit up the cold night sky he examined the glass gallon jug. "Witches
brew 6.9 APV" was the dubious name that was hand written upon it. "It looks innocent enough" he
thought…"perhaps I should give the stuff a second chance." With that he unplugged the rubber cork and
lifted the jug to his lips. "What's the worse that could happen" he reasoned as he took a long gulp.
"Yuk" he thought, but his mind was set and he continued to drink. When the jug was a quarter gone his
opinion began to shift. Songs form his childhood started coming from his normal quiet mouth, and he felt himself
being washed over with a strange sort of unfamiliar sanguinity and cheeriness. As he continued to drink the feelings
only intensified further, the sweet songs of his childhood became replaced with bawdy Irish drinking songs that
he was surprised he even knew. It was then he spies it in the dark forest, a camp fire in the distance. Glancing
in the tent at his sleeping room mate he decided to set off into the darkness to explore." What's the worst
that could happen?" he thought as he set off into the night, his now half emptied jug firmly in his hand.
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