We've come to the end of my IndieGoGo fundraising campaign! Together, we raised over $1600! But if you'd still like to support this author on her journey through writing and peacebuilding, please feel free to use the PayPal button on the top left corner of this blog page. Before we jump into this post, allow me to THANK YOU all for your incredible support, both financially and emotionally. This upcoming adventure of mine is going to be incredible beyond imagining and I would NOT be able to do it without you.
Now, as a reward for your encouragement, I've crafted up something new. It's going to be a short story chronicle (not sure how long yet). So readers, allow me to introduce to you my latest character Rodger in his story The Craft Brew Caper.
The Craft Brew Caper
Though
his life had always been rather dull, Rodger was not about to close out his
days with the same ol’ routine. He refused to go down as an old shoe,
predictable as the sun’s rise, or even as a plain accountant. No. He wanted to
die with the reputation he was determined to be his own – a master brew thief.
Access would be the easy part; Rodger had
worked at Millstone Craft for over ten years as the finance manager. Like most
people in the small island county of Headbrough his life had been consumed by
the golden brews and heavy stouts. Most civilized nations around the world
served the brews that were crafted one-hundred percent from Headbrough. It was
the beer capital of the world and most of its inhabitants were proud of their art
and heritage. Most folks in this island either worked for one stage of the
production or another. Whether they grew hops, built casks, barrels, blew the
glass for the bottles or even if they were merely accountants to the breweries,
(like our poor dear Rodger) one way or another, beer was an active part of
their lives.
The
divisions of society in Headbrough were slightly different than those in most
places, as one’s financial situation did not completely determine where one
stood in society. The brewery owners were the pinnacle of the triangle, slightly
below them were the brew masters, then the farmers, for without them their
craft would be impossible, and then came merchants, the international delivery
sailors, the cellar rats, the beggars and then the final category – the
administration. It is in this sad final category where we find our Rodger. It
was commonly believed that any fool could add or subtract and keep track of
inventory (though indeed this was a misguided paradigm). Though the people of
Headbrough were proud and helped each other in a neighborly fashion, there was
a faction of people who were truly regarded above the rest – the brew masters.
The black booted chemists that knew exactly what it takes to make the most
delectable beer were considered first class and were granted every amenity
imaginable.
The brew
masters were particularly cruel to Rodger. He was an easy target because he
never stood up for himself, but he hated being snubbed, under-thanked and
ignored, especially (and ironically) because the girl of his dreams happened to
be a brew master. From his dimly lit office in the corner of the brewery he
would occasionally see her, Wilhelmina, wearing her loosely fitted uniform and
knee high black boots. Bits of her auburn hair would be slipping out of the
long braid she wore and there was always that charming, beautiful smile on her
fair freckled face, a smile he could only imagine that one day he would cause. But
never as an accountant. He knew as much as anyone on this island about beer,
but the brewery owner, Clive Livermoor did not accept his C.R.A.F.T. scores.
Only those who scored over 28 out of a possible 30 on their Craft, Resource,
& Applied Fermentation Test were eligible to begin the application process
of being a brew master at Livermoor’s Brewery, Sir Hops A lot. Rodger scored a measly 21 and after being laughed
at for asking to take a re-test, he settled for the position offered – head
accountant and there he has remained.
But no
more. He would show it to Mr. Livermoor that he was as clever and as crafty as
any brew master and his plans would come to fruition tonight, during the
twenty-fourth annual Crown Craft Masquerade Ball.
For a
party held in the large basement of a brewery, it was a tad stuffy and
reserved. A chamber orchestra strung out the tunes of highbrow events. The
attendees were dressed in elaborate elegant petticoats and trousers. While
golden tasting brews bubbled and swiveled in the bell shaped glasses or tall
mugs of the guests, none seemed to be having too extraordinary a good time.
That is, except for Rodger, but his giggling delight was not caused by the
consumption of the brew, rather the distribution. His own distribution which
began early that morning…
Knocks
on the door in the early hours of morning were never particularly welcoming to
Kyle, especially when he was in the middle of preparing for his day at work.
Half awake, Kyle dragged his bare feet to the door of his flat. While buttoning
up his brown waistcoat, he drowsily called through the door, “Who is it?”
“It’s
Rodger,” the early morning visitor whispered through the wood – he did not want
the neighbors on the landing above to know that he was here.
Shaking
his head, Kyle unlatched the door to stare critically at his lifelong friend. “Why
in the name of good beer are you here so early?”
Rodger
did not wait for an invitation to come inside. He scooted past his friend to
stand in the light. Kyle’s apartment was a one bedroom studio with little by
means of comfort, but it was in a nicer neighborhood than Rodger’s. Kyle was
also in administration, but he worked in the international trade sector, so his
pay and level of respect in society was higher.
“I’ve
brought you something,” Rodger admitted once Kyle closed the door. He held out to
Kyle a canvas satchel, which clearly contained a small growler.
Rubbing
his hands through his thick, black hair Kyle approached the bag and took it as
if it was nothing special. “What is this? Don’t tell me you’re trying to brew
out of your neighbor’s basement again?”
“No, no.
You know I gave up that hope ages ago,” Rodger assured, although it certainly
provided no comfort to himself. However, a coy and excited smile came across
his face, “Have a taste of that beer and try
to tell me it’s not the best you’ve ever tasted in your life.”
The
prospect of drinking great beer was highly appealing to Kyle, but the early
hour and the oddness of Rodger’s behavior was more pressing. “What’s going on,
man? Is everything alright? I mean, why are you brining me beer at five in the
morning?”
Waving
his hand, Rodger dismissed the inquiry and said, “Just taste that.”
Kyle
continued to stare at Rodger for a moment more before accepting that there
would be no discussion at this point. Sighing heavily, Kyle walked to his round
wooden table where a line of three ounce taster glasses lie as his center
piece. Taking the growler from the bag, Kyle poured a glass and held it up to
the brass gas light feature hanging from his ceiling. “Looks like ale. Is this
the one from Top Hat I told you I liked
a lot?”
“Just
taste it, don’t ask questions,” Rodger was burning with the anticipation of
what Kyle would think.
Sighing
again, Kyle took a sniff. Almost instantly, his eyes lit up. It had a rich, inviting
smoky smell. Deciding that it was safe to drink, Kyle took a sip. The light
bodied, yet full flavored ale had a delightful spiciness with a remarkably
refreshing twist at the end. He allowed his mind a moment to process what
passed over his tongue. Pouring himself a second glass and feeling much more
awake, Kyle asked, “Wh-at is this? This really
is the best beer I’ve ever had. Is this Livermoor’s new brew? I thought he
hated spice.”
Nodding,
Rodger pushed his round spectacles higher up on the bridge of his handsome nose
as he said, “Yes, he does hate spice. Some of that is his ale. But that’s all I
can say. I’m sorry, but I have to go.” Sending his friend a quick smile, Rodger
concluded with, “Enjoy the rest!”
“No, c’mon
man,” Kyle leapt before Rodger to stop him from going out of the door. “Where did
you get this? Better yet, where can I get more?”
Rodger
really wanted to tell his best friend all about his plot, but for now, things
had to stay on the low. It was imperative that no one had the full picture of the
puzzle just yet. Imperative for his plan and quite possibly for his life. Considering
what he could tell his friend so as not to keep him in the dark, Rodger crafted
a few things to say. As quietly as possible, Rodger said, “This isn’t any one man’s beer. The efforts that have
gone in to making this brew has been extensive. You’re coming to the ball
tonight, yes?”
Kyle
nodded and continued to sip his second short glass. (No one at work would
notice if his cheeks were a little pink – it was cold out after all.)
“Excellent.”
Having Kyle there would only make the final stage in his efforts that more
gratifying. “Then you’ll likely find out tonight. But I have to go – I’ve still
much more to be done.” Rodger suddenly looked like a man enlightened as he
began to lean once more for the door.
Kyle
caught Rodger by grabbing the crook of his elbow. “What’re you up to, Rodg?
Really? You don’t seem like yourself.”
There were
a great many details in Rodger’s life, which had changed, but he was not able
to talk about them at this time. All that currently mattered was for his plan
to be seen through before it was too late. The man was dying, after all. If
everything ended up going according to plan, people would be raising their
glasses to him for countless kegs to come.
~*~*~
Come back next week to see the next phase in Rodger's plan!
Until then,
Your humble author,
S. Faxon
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