A Beer Jag

I cannot erase my nightmares of a world without beer. A world unquenched, where death mocks the exclusive Beechwood Aging Process. Where the words taste, smoothness, and drink-ability turn to ashes in our parched mouths. An inhospitable hell realm where robot armies descend from the heavens bearing naught but scorn for flavor and refreshment, leaving an endless unshakable thirst. A place of misery where the human soul, now shadowed from the light of divine grace, is forced into exile from God’s own beer garden and made to wander, lager-less, with no ales or pilsners to protect it.