On the Price of +3 Skipping West Coast IPA

 

On the Shelf:	Behind the Counter:
₵$28 Ghost Tobacco (20)	₵$49 START HERE
₵$20 Bloody Mary	₵$285 Fireball Thrower
₵$50 El Dorado Green (1/4)	₵$213 Blue Angel Mushroom
₵$26 Black Meat (g)	₵$150 Bux. Semp X Cannabis (One Plant)
₵$1 Slut Root (kg)	₵$14 Shiraz of Maybe Electrical Damage
₵$25 Marital Aid Potion	₵$102 The Safe of What You Want for Dinner
₵$50 Quetzalcoatl Feathers (doz.)	₵$125 Chocolate Bar
₵$5 Blue Roses (doz.)	₵$90 Bottled Emotions
₵$67 Mythril (oz.)	₵$17 Beard Cobwebs
₵$19 BZTCN	₵$69 Tofu Which Pairs Perfectly with Your Wine (350g)

This Week's Special:

Henchpeople caught a secret agent sneaking around the volcano lair on Friday night, which was not a good time. Dr Woke was in between evil plots but super-villainy is a perpetual grind. Usually early to bed and early to rise, Dr Woke was still awake (ha!) courtesy of Samuel’s Gorge 2023 Mourvèdre. Once secret agent was chained above tank of groupers, it was technically Saturday and Dr Woke was on the beers.

Dr Woke lost notes in his pockets, so he had to improvise: 'Well... you... yukon stop me this time... you... With your feet'nt yaw walking. 'lways take your time at the crossing, whadonchoo. Got shit to do. So I'm arma make shoes. Every-in move faster. Just Do It, amiright? Yeah, that's is good one.'

The secret agent responded: 'Your ego got the better of you, Dr Woke. I just tricked you into revealing your nefarious secrets!'

The secret agent was pulled up by AI powered bootstraps and he escaped from chains and lair.

'Hmph, fuck.' Swaying, Dr Woke looked at beer in hand. 'Aright, arma hit the sack, wank out these carbs.'

The secret agent reports to his superiors in the Straight White Cis Male network's intelligence services. Malcolm intends to pre-empt Dr Woke's Social-Justice-War-Crimes and so orders engineers to develop the shoes described. The Crossing Shoes are brandless, non-descript red. They detect when wearer is crossing the road and flash them across with one electric step.

Dr Woke's plot will never eventuate because you were paying attention. Malcolm will come to sell the Crossing Shoes to someone with an eye for magical fashion. This someone may dislike the social fracas which road-crossing can become or, more likely, just want to show off.

That market is Esmerelda.

As Esmeralda is an upper-middle class white fem-profesh, we may deduce three things. First, she cares about the environment. Second, she doubles snarling down when anybody accuses her of cultural appropriation. Third, she dabbles in the esoteric - unlike most, Esmeralda successfully charges her crystals.

These factors converge in a product that Esmeralda will craft on order, if payment can give her a fuck. She can evoke voodoo-doll magic and write the client's enemy's name on reusable coffee cup whilst scrolling target's narcissistic Instagram. The Reusable Coffee Cup of Revenge can be taken to environmentally-conscious cafes and refilled, again and again. Doing so transfers, instantaneous, any caffeine-induced bowel movements to the individual named on the cup.

Caveats limit this product's market. The coffee must be black and cannot be sweetened with sugar or stevia's ilk. (For reasons unknown, the exception to this rule is date syrup.) Also, grabbing coffee with nemesis could be awkward if they spot their name on somebody else's cup. Conversely, if there is mix-up, if heavens perfectly align, a nemesis may inflict bowel movement on themselves and, maybe, all the risks are worth it if this infinite-loops impact to bowels.

That market is Yvette.

Yvette was emptying bins into wheelie-bin when she overheard:

'It's some sigma-male cringe. It's anti-social.'

'I contest that. Cold showers are uncomfortable and therefore brief. They save water, and time that can be used socialising.'

'But what if someone joins you? Surely you don't want that to be brief?'

'That's fucking in the shower, not showering. Once both parties are satisfied, they both still have to clean. And water is bad lubricant. And, eh, can we help you?'

Yvette, caught eavesdropping, smiles: 'No, but I can help you.' before moving onto next bin.

Because Yvette is a sex goddess, a side-hustling performer of divine interventions in bedroom/dungeon/handicapped toilet. With promises of greater satisfaction, Yvette acquires test subjects for trial-and-error. She consults with all manner of STEM. Yvette develops instruction manual for the Sudsy Sally.

The Sudsy Sally, actually triplicate of positions, props soap within bodies' grinding to clean both parties to fucking. The manual includes variations accommodating different body types, queer couplings and shower parameters. Yvette only produces the one copy because markets love a scarcity and printing is expensive. The market for the Sudsy Sally is a couple, or someone looking to couple, rather horny but wary of time.

That market is Shane and Janessa.

Shane and Janessa continued to expand - a beer garden, a kitchen, a relative concocting gin under spin-off brand. Their blog is still woeful, so that is one thing I have over them. They do (unwittingly) have a small but lucrative livestream following amongst various gods of beer and/or brewing.  Said celestial drinking hall once granted them a boon, of which they may have a carton or two left.

There is no image more wholesome than grown man skipping with carton of beer on his shoulder. The initial release of +3 Skipping West Coast IPA confirmed this. Merely skipping with carton spreads good vibes by product association, but drinking is usually necessary for skipping. A certain element of ambiguous markets glommed onto wholesomeness.

Skipping hits the perambulation sweet spot of ne'er-do-'ells between criminal points A and B. Walking is too slow but running invites suspicion. Anyone who briefly glimpses man skipping against traffic will forget to consult their dash cam. Skipping burns of the calories of beer and alcohol fortifies confidence over the shorter journey.

That market is Malcolm.

 

* The price of a Four Pack of Beer is ₵$10 for every beer I had the previous month, including non-alcoholic and cooking.

On the Price of Slut Root

On the Shelf:	Behind the Counter:
₵$36 Ghost Tobacco (20)	₵$63 Fire Chicken Feathers (doz.)
₵$15 Bloody Mary	₵$16 Fine MRE Spice (p/g)
₵$50 El Dorado Green (1/4)	₵$340 Four Pack of Beer
₵$28 Black Meat (g)	₵$20 Sex Doll Goon Sack
₵$1 Slut Root (kg)	₵$120 Bux. Semp. X Cannabis
₵$30 Marital Aid Potion	₵$47 Bottled Emotions (qt.)
₵$50 Quetzalcoatl Feathers (doz.)	₵$20 Self-Cooking Olive Oil (375 ml)
₵$5 Blue Roses (doz.)	₵$205 Brick of Cocaine
₵$29 Mythril (oz.)	₵$86 Memory Coffee
₵$14 BZTCN	₵$40 Christian Repellent

This Week's Special:

The backyard is a dull grey blanket in dawn's blue. April loses her shins in foliage heavy with last night's rain. The garden fork's teeth sink into earth. April levers fork - the crackle of tearing roots and a tuber is raises above canopy.

It screams: 'Venus! Cock! Trap!'

April removes fork, twists it 90° and stabs it into the tuber again. And again.

Slut Root, or 'Dull Man's Drake', is a weed endemic to April's backyard. April's front yard is mostly a heap of the dried tubers topped with a tarp, like immodest boob with nipple tassel. Dried Slut Root tubers have an energy density of roughly 24 megajoules per kilogram but are a slow burn.

April throws her latest harvest/victim into the front yard pile to dry. Parked on street with trailer, Kev leans on black Toyota Prado. He has two coffees.

April, thank you: 'You? A morning person?'

'I have chores.' Rizz. 'First on my list, buy some firewood. The best firewood.

Click of the tongue: 'Sorry, eftpos is down. Must be another software update. Perhaps you'd like to barter?'

Passing her a newspaper clipping: 'Oh, I would.'

Kev is a mortgage broker but moonlights as Australia's leading K-Pop girl group: 'So I've got connections. Bought a smaller, household prototype from Hanwha. Consider the opportunities. Fast food could one day be delivered by drone, and you could shoot it down for two-fifty. Fish and chips. For two-fifty.'

Yeah, that checks out: 'How much do you want?'

'My trailer carries half a ton?'

#####

Ryan slips between dream and light, every roll comfortable with yeah, a little longer. His rational mind is amused by his sleeping brain's murmuring, because they mean returning descent into sleep. He was woken earlier but he does not recall how. He recalls upon the screech of 'seeemen deeemon'.

Ryan sculls bedside water and turns the coffee on. Pissing out the door, he admires his backyard. It is a crop rotation of illegal tobacco.

(The price of Ghost Tobacco has continued to trend downwards due to this new supply. Ryan had hired a landscaper to swap his backyard with an American Indian burial ground, atop which he planted tobacco. Julielle had been paid to negotiate with the undead strata. a cemetery just outside Kadapa favoured by US expats.

Ryan throws on a dressing gown and, coffee steaming, strolls down street. He waits patiently through a shriek of 'commuuunity kiiitchen' followed by laugh and start of chainsaw. April eventually comes out front with a full kindling box.

Ryan blurs: 'You? A morning person?'

Of course: 'I'm doing Dry July. I have more energy in my mornings.'

'It's August.'

'If everyone did the same sober month, there'd be an oversaturation of designated drivers.'

'Fair.'

Magdalene pulls up in her Toyota Hilux. She used to be Australia's leading trans alchemy YouTube personality but the algorithm has since fucked her. Not that she minds - free of trend chasing and upload grind, she can pursue her side hustle at (still rigorous) ease. Perhaps this inspired her throwing spice bag of Retrograde Amnesia into pot of water before keys hit counter.

'But I'm still an alchemist.' She assures. 'And I have a Potion of +2 Enjoyment Derived From What You Enjoy.'

'Uh.' April chooses her words. 'Have you heard of marijuana?'

'Everybody says that.' Frustrated, but: 'What if what you enjoy is smoking dope?'

'Still.'

'Now now.' Ryan tuts. 'What did we talk about?'

(He had previously insisted: 'Accept every taker. The more this root gets around, the more word of mouth about its accessibility.')

April: 'Fine. Fifty kilos.'

#####

Noon has risen on this mostly clear day. April has removed jumper and Ryan has opened dressing gown. They lounge on deck chairs in her front yard. They drink glasses of Lipton, with ice cubes and mint garnish and Pina-Colada umbrellas.

Janessa and Shane come skipping down the street. Their arms are linked and they each carry a carton of beer on their spare shoulder.

Ryan demurs: 'There is no image more wholesome than skipping with beer.'

'True.'

 Shane does the brewing and Janessa does the books. One tends to kids whilst the other tends to drunks, then they swap roles. A microbrewery greater than the sum of its beers. Shanessa* have (has?) become good at this dance. They do-si-do. They allemande left and right. They weave the rig and box the gnat. They grand the wrong way but everyone holds their tongue, pretty sure that Shane and Janessa are unaware of their own dancing. The in-joke amongst patrons has grown customer base by 8%.

Alcoholics of taste are not the only sentients to notice. A rearrangement of the heavens had placed the Beer Gods' keg in the Square Dance Gods' hall. Their first week had been icy, both parties cliquey and everyone wishing to work from home. Then a moment from Heavens above (management): both parties sharing Janessa and Shane's dancing, looking over to the other party and realising.

'Colab?'

'Colab.'

'Colab!'

Their enthusiasm was somewhat premature. There was dancing, there was drinking, there was too much electro-swing. The interns of respective factions produced a British sitcom's worth of discrete hook-ups.

Still, they looked on the tank of dopplebock and smiled. It became a West Coast IPA. Janessa waved down the panic of Shane's tastebuds:

'Magic's happened before. Let's sell it again.'

They tapped it and found their regulars returning, driving licences unmolested, because they were skipping home. Janessa and Shane canned a batch of +3 Skipping West Coast IPA. The 7.4% alcohol increases confidence in skipping and the +3 Skipping improves skipping. Shane and Janessa skip past April and Ryan.

April: 'Mo-ther-fuck. I wanted something to drink tonight.'

Ryan chuckles.

#####

Overcast afternoon. April is a salivating troll silhouetted in shed door. Eyes darting before she selects her latest implement, a Dutch hoe:

'Hne hne hne. Amsterdam.'

The blade is plunged into earth.

Muffled: 'The people's dildo.'

The Dutch hoe has killed the slut root and April is disappointed. Blue boobed. she unloads her dishwasher. The doorbell plays Crazy Frog.

April answers the door: 'I don't know who you are but you have a bottle of McWilliam's 'On the Grapevine' 2022 Pinot Noir. Come in.'

Elise and Todd take stools (the sitting, uh, wooden kind) at April's kitchen top. They are crypto-zoologists with a knack for uninvasively profiteering from their research subjects. Low-hanging urban fruit has already been picked, much like the Mirelurk dung, so they have been venturing further out. A stockpile of lightweight firewood is therefore useful.

April empties bottle, refilling all glasses: 'And what is useful for me?'

So. On the 16th, the lovely couple (they brought booze, after all) had been walking down a main road when heavy rain hit. Todd had brought an umbrella but it proved insufficient, so they ducked into a convenient shopping centre.

Elise's white shirt became transparent. Fortunately, their corner of the shopping centre was unoccupied, no foot traffic. The Asian grocery was expanding into the space vacated by Commonwealth Bank. There as a piece, elevated in the corner between tenancies, where they could both sit. Todd expanded umbrella vertically for privacy whilst Elise peeled off her shirt. The cleaner came by to empty the bin, gave no shits and left.

The Gods of Public Sex had long ago subscribed to Elise and Todd. For reasons. They hang around their celestial water cooler, scrolling phones for shit to talk about, but that shit is public sex. They talk about public sex - after all, it is public.

Todd and Elise kissed before the umbrella popped. The Gods were indulging electro-swing and their reaction was definitely premature. The umbrella became the Umbrella of Sex Discretion.

'But.' Elise adds. 'All I did was change my shirt.'

Todd: 'And now it looks like this.'

April's glass is done, so she's done: 'That's cute. 25 kilos.'

Elise: 'Mmm.'

            Todd: 'Higher.'

Because the Umbrella of Sex Discretion carries a list of other bonuses:

a) +1 sneak

b) Once per day, the wielder can cast a giant umbrella that is used specifically for people doing it

and, c) just to cover all linguistic bases, a +2 Gender Ambiguity and Everyone's Okay With That

d) +110% melee damage

'Hm. All right.' April thinks on her feet. 'Four perks. 25 kilos a perk. 100 kilos for your penis umbrella. Now, if you don't have any more booze, get out of my house.'

 

*Ew..

Four Pack of Beer

 

Shane had been floating, like cigarette ash flicked out the window which gets blown back in and somehow meanders behind the passenger seat, the idea, of starting a microbrewery, past his wife Janessa. It seemed like too much work at the time but then covid. The Department of Very Bad Ideas then spent an all nighter on Vèronique Old Vine GSM 2016 and the problem of epidemic-imposed economic downturn. One bureaucrat, eventually widening eyes in drunken epiphany, said to colleagues:

'You know that money we make people save so that we don't have to give them money when they're old? What. If. We let them spend it?'

So with that start-up capital and unemployment, Shane and Janessa took their chance. They were unsure, long-burn nervous trepidation in their mutual loins, whether there were no microbreweries in the northeast because it had not been done before or that it had and failed. The former: Shane and Janessa's microbrewery thrived, small business for the win. Word of mouth grew alongside their income and variety of wares - the staple session ale, pale ale and stout extrapolated into NEIPA Red Rye IPA and a limited-release Double Dry-Hopped IIIPA that they only sold in schooners because that shit is 11%. They also got canning equipment = takeaways.

Things got oh so raspberry gose when Shane previewed what was supposed to be a West Coast IPA. The Tralles hydrometer glowed radioactive green when it tested alcohol levels. Samples were poured direct from still for confidantes - tasting notes were varies but responses always positive. Meaning, this beer became whatever beer the imbiber most needed at that particular point of time. Janessa and Shane debated what this esoteric drink should be called and what it should cost. Shane won that it should just be called 'Beer' on Janessa's condition that it be sold under-the-bar for products of equal-or-greater impossibility.

One quiet afternoon, specifically that of Thursday, the 5th of May, 2022, Liam sauntered into the microbrewery with long gait, arms bent at 90° and ending in small fists.

Shane: 'Hey there. What can I get you?'

Liam: 'I'd like a Four Pack of Beer.'

Shane, with rehearsed double-check code-phrase: 'How are you paying? We don't take cash.'

Cracking smile: 'The Blue Lidded Wheelie Bin.'

Janessa refuses to crack eyebrow: 'The Blue Lidded Wheelie Bin?'

Aha! in Liam's right-left-right eyes: 'Councils give residents three bins, each with different lids. Green for green waste, yellow for recycling, red for everything else which is not remotely burning which, irony, amiright?'

Liam raises hand in air, pivots in search of high-five from third party. The only other patron at bar - Magdalene, halfway through pint of dark ale - does not have three metre arms.

Not phased: 'But a blue lidded bin? Who knows what's supposed to go in it? Who knows where it goes? I don't.'

The married couple exchange glances cum-loaded with meaning.

Janessa decides: 'Yeah, we need a new bin.'

Liam skips out with Four Pack of Beers which will provide fast, heavy intoxication stopping just before the need to vomit. Shane wheels the Blue Lidded Wheelie Bin inside. Catching the door with foot, just before it closes, is Easy carrying a potted 750 mm fern to the bar:

'I would like to buy a Four Pack of Beer.

Janessa suspects answer: 'How are you paying? We don't take cash.'

Easy does cock eyebrow: 'The plant?'

Whilst shitfaced, Ezekiel 'Easy' Bones composes sigils intended to summon one dark lord or another. Frequency of shitfacery eventually brute forces successful magic and three such sigils have been published in fringe grimoires. The Saturday nights on gamay are more productive than the Friday nights on pale ales and the glorified Tamagotchi that is Easy's current character in The Long Dark. Mr. Funbags has survived 266 days so far.

Friday nights are designated steam-blow-offs because Easy nine-to-fives in work starting variably between 5:30 and 10:30 and going for 8 or 10 hours, inclusive of unpaid lunch break. Easy's exact job role is hard to pin down: the day's assignments may change with every hour or with greater frequency should the boss be present. That said, Easy will answer 'gardener' is asked 'so what do you do?' by a cute girl, should that ever eventuate.

Two of Easy's co-workers have recently lost their driver's licences - one due to THC leftover in bloodstream from the night before, the other due to drinking commenced at morning. Another had covid. Lo, Easy was sent solo to a financial call-centre situated between highway and parkland, with lawns mowed fortnightly and fence line overgrowing inoffensively, unobtrusively, until the boss notices. In this perimeter jungle, Easy rip-sawed weeds grown above canopy and stuffed two-thirds of the resulting green matter into his Mazda 3. It was there that Easy found the Helpful Plant. Unsupervised, he moved it into a pot and took it home.

Easy concludes explanation: 'And here's why you might want this plant. A friend found that whenever they vomit into its pot, the plants limbs bend and lift her hair out of regurgitation's way. Makes her feel like a Disney Princess.'

Janessa shrugs: 'This is a bar.'

Shane agrees: 'Yeah, someone'll chuck sooner or later.'

Transaction made. Easy mawks out with Four Pack of Beers which will provide kick enough for conversation dragged along for three hours but be sufficiently low in alcohol for the legal drive home.

Shane manages to empty and reload the dishwasher before the next patron - Giuseppe rocking an old hippie look with long white hair and name spelt out in necklace built from alphabet-blocks.

Giuseppe places both hands on bar: 'I'd like a Four Pack of Beer.'

Magdalene is enjoying the guest-tapped dopplebock: 'How are you paying? They don't take cash.'

Giuseppe: 'Do you know what a Beyblade is?'

Shane: 'Those spinning top toys?'

'Ah, but.' Eight months back, Giuseppe had Allan Quatermained on aussie-wasca around Queensland. he found an ancient temple (stone, circa 1980's) reclaimed by Amazonian jungle and delved inside, found a primordial spirit of wombat trapped within an iron effigy. Giuseppe had asked the spirit 'would you like to live inside a child's toy' and spirit was like 'Hells yeah'. Ergo, this Beyblade is more akin to those of the morning cartoon - episode long battles of attrition between demigods - than the toys that said cartoon grossly exaggerated. If said 23 minute advertisements (30 with adverts) are to be believed, Beyblades such as Giuseppe's may have utility in influencing geopolitics.

Janessa stops him there: 'This is a bar.'

Shane: 'Yeah, sorry mate, not interested.'

'Oh. Ok, can I get a pint of the lager then?'

Shane, habit: 'How are you paying?'

'Cash.'

Wincing apologetic: 'We don't take cash. Eftpos only.'

So Giuseppe leaves without booze. Shame on Giuseppe. But Magdalene picks up the slack, raising hand in air and filling silence before anyone notices it:

'I know your system.'

Janessa begrudges: 'They don't usually come in like, uh, chains like that.'

Shane: 'Also, we're usually busier Thursday afternoons -'

Magdalene completes the slap on bartop commenced 8.28 seconds ago: '- you've got quiz night in an hour. But I am drunk enough to leave now.' Counting fingers. 'I. Would. Like. To. Buy. Aaaaa. Four. Pack of beer.'

Janessa: 'How are you paying? Not cash, yadda yadda.'

Magdalene forgets to cock eyebrow: 'One marital aid potion.'

Janessa, what bitch? : 'Pardon me?'

Oops: 'Two marital aid potions. Three. Not for you, for your customers. I suspect giving some marital aid to a few regulars will help maintain your vibe, your balance of indie and family friendly.'

Mute agreement between the married couple: yeah, let's get rid of her. Magdalene struts out with four beers which will provide four nights of drunken epiphany that stop short of recklessness.