For my friend Caleb Bush, a bitchass lil puddy ass whose suggestion led to this.
It was a desolate night outside of Anheuser Theatre, but the halls within warmed with the activity of black clad stage hands frantically assembling the show of the year. The theatre normally blended innocuously into the industrial background of Milwaukee like a balsam fir nuzzled within the caress of a tree farm, however tonight the red brick building was lit elegantly. Two massive spotlights strafed through the foggy air and skipped along the shallow, dark sky. A shimmering red carpet led from the sidewalk, through the front door, and into the main hall. Gates were set up on either side to contain the tittering crowd. Four long, gold drapes with dark green fringe hung over the lip of the roof and ran down the front of the building. Millions of pounds of saturated clouds hung over the scene with holy catastrophic potential.
Standing around the corner from the Anheuser Theatre were two anthropomorphic cans of seltzer, Truly and White Claw. They were both exactly 6.125 feet tall and had a 2.25 diameter. Their eyes were located on the slanted ridge below the upper lip of their can, but above the main part of their ridgid, aluminum abdomen. Their mouths, which were almost a foot wide when they sincerely smiled, were located a few inches below the center mass of their slender bodies. Their arms were located several degrees lower than the latitude of their mouth. Both were completely unscathed and undented. This feat can be attributed to their cushy jobs as co-hosts of America’s most popular television station, Booze News Network.
The saccharine smell of spicy honey clung to the air like smog. The nearby mead factory had begun production of their pumpkin spice varieties for 2021. On quiet, still evenings outside the factory, the plaintive wails of newborn beverages acclimating to their existence as new members of Cankind could be heard. This catch-all term includes all cans, bottles, bags, boxes and barrels; as long as they contain booze.
Truly was wearing a mid-length, beige trench coat. She paced back and forth over the asphalt parking lot following the pattern of a tight oblong circle. Her three inch heels clicked at a fast, steady pace. The pale red hue of lipstick was smeared over her chewn fingernails. A microphone was gently cradled in her left hand. A gust of frigid air felt like tiny needles whipping against her. She fastened her jacket tighter to her waist.
Standing opposite of her was her semi-estranged husband, White Claw. He wore a navy blue frock coat with the collar popped up. The fuzzy fabric tickled his cheeks which annoyed him. His dark brown, almond toe shoes were so shiny that the lamplight cast off them lost none of it’s luminosity. Carefully, he placed his microphone down and sat on the bumper of their news van. His elbows were placed on his knees while his hands supported his hung head. Lazily, he kicked around a crisp leaf that had fallen from the tree branch above him moments prior. There was a soft crunch as he stepped on the leaf, and then powderized it by twisting back and forth with the tip of his shoe. Occasionally, he would cup his hands together and exhale hot breath into them. Truly’s heels continued to click away. White Claw looked up at the beverage who was technically still his wife and furrowed his brow.
“Will you quit pacing around? You know when you act all nervous like this it makes me nervous. How long have we been doing this show for? And you’re still nervous?” White Claw asked.
“Will you stop telling me what to do? And ten years. Exactly twenty-five percent of my life has been spent hosting this show with you,” Truly said. She turned away from him, and muttered, “Not that you would even remember.”
“What did you say?” White Claw said.
“Nothing. Can we please be good tonight? Like we were the first time we hosted the Booze Awards?” Truly asked.
White Claw smiled. On that evening, the night of the 2010 Booze Awards, she had worn a shoulderless emerald green gown that sparkled in the moonlight. They had been waiting around the corner of the Anheuser Theatre for their call time on an evening that was much warmer and clearer than tonight. She had been truly gorgeous. She was gorgeous now, and he knew it, but on that night in 2010 she had him wrapped around her chewn finger.
They had been seeing each other for several months at the time, but the paint of their love was still wet. On that night, under that moon, with that dress, the paint dried. It was the dress that made him fall in love. but it was the tenderness in her brown eyes when she asked, with all sincerity, “Do I look alright?” that made him buy an engagement ring the next day.
But that was ten years ago.
“I’ll do my best,” White Claw mumbled.
White Claw saw her expression turn from wanting to deflated in seconds. He felt a pang of guilt in his gut.
“Oh, come on… Come here, babe…” White Claw said. He wrapped his arms around her and held her close. Her tense, aluminum body softened slightly as he embraced her.
Their marriage was fraught with tribulations and contempt, but they both secretly felt that their love was alive. Their separate groups of friends would tactfully encourage their much needed divorce, and both would only give half-hearted commitments to entertain the idea.
Privately, they both insisted that divorce was off the table. They tried to separate in the past, but, like magnets, despite the distance or time apart, they became stuck again when brought close. They settled into a toxic stalemate where she wouldn’t sleep under the same roof as him, but would allow him to drive her to big events so they could maintain appearances. Truthfully, she wanted to maintain the appearance. It is difficult when you love someone that makes you sick.
White Claw felt giddy from this loving embrace that had become so scarce as of late. He believed that it was the time to nudge the pendulum of their love a bit.
“Hey?” White Claw soothed.
“Yes, Claw?” Truly responded. Her head was nuzzled against the shoulder of his coat, and she did not look up at him to respond.
“I know that you said you wanted to stay at your mom’s for a bit, and I’m — well first let me tell you that I’m not trying to make you do anything that you don’t want to do. Let me say that first. But if you felt like maybe you could… I don’t know… Maybe… Move back in with –”
“Who bought you this coat?” Truly interrupted. She held his lapel between her two fingers and scrutinized the fabric.
“What?” White Claw asked.
“Who bought you this coat?” Truly asked again tensely. She detached herself and folded her arms.
“What? Oh God, I don’t know,” he lied. “I was just in the middle of–”
“You were just in the middle of bullshitting is what you were doing! Now, who bought you the coat?”
“Oh fuck! A friend bought it, okay? What the fuck is this?”
“Oh, like your ‘friend’ Cherry Burnetts from the tennis club? That cheap slut. Or how about that crunchy barefoot hippie bitch, Barefoot? Or was it a friend like –”
“Oh my God, we were on a break!! I should have known you’d do something like this tonight. You can’t ever let a good thing be good!”
“Ohhhh, says the can who sticks his cork in any bottle with a neck!”
“That doesn’t even make any sense!”
A young Langhagen lemonade shandy appeared from around the corner of the building and walked towards them with his face buried in a clip board. It was their intern, Langy. Their argument was abruptly shuttered, and they hastily put on their show faces.
“Uhh, you guys are on in five… Okay?” Langy said.
“Hey, Langy!” White Claw boomed. He was now using his silky, tenor showbusiness voice that originally brought him such incredible fame twelve years ago. At one point, he was the youngest, hottest can in all of television news. He was named 2008’s “Sexiest Can Alive” by Jugs, Cansmo, and Esquire all in one year.
But that was twelve years ago.
Publicly he leaned into the malicious memes and brutal episodes of television that lampooned him, but it seemed that when he tried to laugh along everyone else stopped. The best thing for his image was to simply take these insults on the chin. In private, these jabs, in conjunction with his astronomical fame, mangled and distorted his identity to the point where he lived in a secret shadow of self hatred.
“You know, if you play your cards right, kid, one day you’ll be sitting in my chair,” White Claw beamed. He flashed his grotesque, bleached-white teeth. They shone under the lamplight like a freshly waxed basketball court.
“Uh, thanks Mr. Claw…” Langy said.
“Please Langy, you can call me White. And you’re very welcome!” White Claw exclaimed. “It is important to have heroes who you idolize and put up on every imaginable pedestal if you’re going to get anywhere in life.
“Yeah, well… thanks. I’ve got to go now so please be in your places in two minutes,” Langy said. Throughout his last sentence backed away slowly.
“And remember Langy, ‘Ain’t no law…”
“…when you’re drinking claws’,” Langy said, sheepishly finishing White Claw’s catchphrase.
After the boy was out of earshot, Truly started up again without missing a single beat of their argument.
“You don’t make any sense!” Truly roared. She pointed her finger at the center of his chest.
“Let’s go now before you get yourself all shaken up. You don’t want to almost explode like you almost did on New Years do you?” White Claw spat back. Truly’s shoulders slumped.
“I told you to never bring that up…” Truly said softly. She began to tear up, but quickly composed herself. She was about to be on national television and could not risk having her makeup run. Long ago she learned a trick to stop crying. She simply thought of all the things that she hated most in the world. This morphed her sadness into anger, and it was much harder to cry when you were filled with rage.
In college, when she was still learning about journalism and many other things, she joined a sorority. She was from the small town of Ilium, New York, but was able to attend NYU on a full ride. When saying goodbye at Ilium’s train station on that stale summer afternoon, her mother wept. She had never learned Truly’s trick.
“Oh baby, I’m sorry. I’m just so happy for my sweet girl. She’s going to be a real college student! You’ll be able to get a big girl job in a big girl city… away from… Oh, oh, oh! I’m sorry, honey. Please go now. Please… I love you so much,” her mother wept.
Truly never really wanted to go to school, but she wanted to make her mother proud. What she truly wanted was to be happy.
Over the next four years, her sorority sisters taught her many things. They taught her to not slouch or talk about anime with the boys. They made her quit smoking cigarettes because “you’ll never get someone to provide for you smelling like shit”. They taught her how to smile even when she did not want to. They taught her to shut up and accept the horrible, mean-spirited jokes that the boys constantly made. She soon learned that there is nothing funnier in the mind of a male can than to be an ironic bigot.
One night when she was at a frat party, she got punched by one of the Natty Lights that was fucked up on cocaine.
“What did you say to him?” was the first question her “big sister” asked her. It was that night that she learned the secret to not crying. Her trick had never failed her, and it would not fail her this bitter night outside of Anheuser Theatre in 2020.
“You’re so fucking mean sometimes you know that? The cheating is one thing, but do you know what really, really bothers me?” She asked. “The fact that you always have to be so fucking mean.” She quickly turned and walked away from him towards the front of the theatre.
White Claw lightly jogged, and caught up just before they turned the corner. From the crowd’s perspective, the two anchors appeared from behind the building striding naturally and magnificently. They took their positions which were marked by a cross of black masking tape in front of the entrance to the theatre. Their producer mouthed the words “two, one…”. The red “go” light on the top of the camera lit up.
“Hello everyone and welcome to the 2020 Booze Awards!” White Claw trumpeted.
“It is our favorite time of the year isn’t it, Big C?” Truly cheered with a stretched smile.
“It is indeed, Truly! Who do we have coming down the red carpet first?” White Claw sang.
“It looks like we have Mr. and Mrs. Michelob Ultra! Mr. Ultra, could you please tell us who you’re wearing tonight?” Truly asked.
“Yes, yes, yes of course I wear nothing but Giacomo Conterno Monfortino of course! That is the only wine that knows how to create clothing that can fit my body shape! And yes, before you ask, I have lost weight. I’m down another 40 calories! Can you not see? How can you not see it?! You wait until next year, and I will be half the size today. And another half after that and another half after that! Hah! Hah!” Mr. Ultra chattered.
His wife gently placed her hand on the small of his back to guide him along. She was a patient wife, but having a husband heavily addicted to amphetamines takes a heavy toll on a beer.
“Ahem, yes well, who do we have next? Oh and if it isn’t Sweetwater 420 himself! How are you feeling tonight, Sweet?” White Claw asked.
“Dude… Have you ever, like, felt this carpet? Like really felt it? I don’t think it is real,” 420 said.
“How do you mean?” Truly asked.
“I mean I don’t think it is from a real animal, man. I think it’s faux. What kind of animal could this even be? Like do you ever think that maybe everything is fake? Do you ever wonder if we are living in a simulation? How do we know there isn’t a parallel universe where everyone is a furless monkey?? And, in that universe, they eat us, man! What if that really happened? What if it is happening?!? I’m telling you I had a vision last night, man. Really heavy shit,” 420 trailed off.
“What was your vision?” Truly asked.
“My what?” 420 responded.
“Your vision,” Truly repeated.
“Oh 20/20! Right on, man! How’s your vision?” 420 said. Truly desperately attempted to find an out of this conversation, and, to her relief, saw PBR creep up from behind 420. He looked at Truly, put a finger to his lips and smiled. He sprang up, and landed on 420’s back.
“Wooaahhhh, man, what the — Oh, hahaha, look who it is! My boy, PBR! What is up, bro!” 420 exclaimed.
“Hey there, you stoned fucker!” PBR said. He paused to do his secret handshake with 420. “And how are you tonight, Truly? You look absolutely gorgeous.” The delicate corners of his lips lifted to form his crooked, roguish smile. He gently lifted Truly’s hand and kissed it. She immediately felt herself becoming more carbonated.
“Oh yes, hello, Pabst,” she said while trying not to blush. “And who are you wearing tonight?”
“Oh you know, the usual. Regular ol’ jeans with a regular ol’ red, white and blue t-shirt. I know it isn’t very fancy, but these clothes fit me well and I like them. What else do you really need?” PBR said. “Although, maybe you could give me some pointers sometime.” He winked at her, and then turned to White Claw.
“And how are you tonight, sir?” PBR asked in an exaggerated, regal manner. He grabbed White Claw’s hand and attempted to kiss it before it was roughly snatched back.
“PBR. I see you couldn’t be bothered to dress for the occasion once again,” White Claw said tersely. “Do you have no respect for the academy?”
“Oh Claw, charming as usual I see! I have a good feeling tonight about my chances for the Blue Ribbon. What about you?” PBR said.
“Why don’t you go fuck yourself you barley-bred bitch!” White Claw sneered.
“Always a bridesmaid and never a bride, huh?” PBR said. “Well it looks like I am holding up the procession so I must get along. Truly, it was lovely to see you as always.”
PBR sauntered down the red carpet towards the ceremony, arm in arm with 420. They were slow going as they regularly stopped to shake hands, “kiss babies” and sign the autographs of every young whiskey, seltzer, beer, tequila, shandy, vodka, white wine, red wine, fortified wine, orange wine, pink wine, aperitif, gin, sangria, malt liquor, rum, cider, liqueur, sambuca, kombucha, sake, brandy, and canned cocktail that asked for their autograph. Pabst didn’t discriminate against any potation.
It was PBR’s universal personability that made him the most popular beer in America, but it was the depth and quality of his character that made him the best beer of all Cankind. He was kind to strangers and valued his close friendships more than anything in the world. PBR was only a single phone call away from dropping whatever important work he was doing to help a friend in need.
In his off time from being America’s favorite beer, PBR ran the Pabst for Kids foundation which primarily helped provide books to kids in low income areas. The non-profit also funded and oversaw the operation of two hundred homeless shelters, found legal representation for non-violent drug offenders, and raised money to help cure children who were afflicted with congenital non-alcoholism. Pabst would toss and turn at night thinking of all the unfortunate drinks who were born with the inability to be alcoholic.
PBR had a magical ability to bring disparate groups of folks together in the most unlikely of circumstances. The Pabst Accords were named in honor of him, despite his reticence, after he ended the millenia old conflict between Israel and Palestine. However, PBR was not all business. His Warhol-esque parties that were held at his modest estate in the country were the hottest place to be at almost any time of the year. If you somehow made your way into the party, you might casually stumble across the actor Jack Daniel, the impressionist painter Espolon, or the disgraced former Russian ambassador, Stolichnaya.
What made PBR’s inimitable charm even more irresistible was the fact that there was nothing flashy about him. He wore the same t-shirt and jeans most days because that is what he wanted to do. If he wanted to wear something else, then he would do that. There was a sincerity to PBR that made his friends fervently loyal to him and his detractors equally spiteful.
The adoration was heaped onto PBR from his fans while White Claw angrily watched from the corner of his eye. It wasn’t only the pedestrian jealousy that enraged him. It was the look in Truly’s eyes as she spoke with the beer. Claw had seen that look before, but never from this vantagepoint. His appearance remained stoic, but underneath his mask of professionalism he was squirming with resentment.
“Up next, the King of Beers himself, Mr. Bud Weiser! Mr. Weiser or Bud, if I may call you that, how are you feeling tonight?” White Claw boomed.
“You may certainly not call me Bud you little ingrate!” King Bud cried incredulously. “Pacifico? Pacifico, honey? Who the fuck is this imbecile?”
“¿Qué está mal? These are Truly and White Claw. They are very famous. ¿No lo sabes, mi amor?” Pacifico asked tenderly.
“What did I say about speaking all that bullshit! I don’t give a fuck who these whippersnappers are. In my day, you had to be made with BARLEY! AND… WHEAT! AND…. Oh fuck, what else was it… And another thing, there should be no mixing of the different wines together!! Sangria is sin! Oh fuck, where in the shit did I put my…” Bud mumbled.
The irony was that Bud’s own son, Bud Light, was created as the product of a torrid affair that his first wife had had with a bowl of rice. It was a dark secret in their family that had been kept from even Bud, the King of Beers, himself. He was a miserly old coot who barely could retain a single cogent thought. His family was confident that he would not have the emotional maturity to love his bastard son despite the circumstance. The Weiser family allowed him to rot in his own hateful ignorance.
After several hours of famous libations hobnobbing their way down the red carpet, everyone was settled in their seats. The ceremony was held in a grand ballroom adorned with great red ribbons and mighty golden sashes which furled from the balcony. The elites turned in their chairs to gossip and do their best impression of civilized people while waiting for the show to begin.
“Oh, how charming your necklace is dear! I know that they can’t be real with how your last picture went!” ”AHAHAH “ “Why yes, I do think that the 2010 Sangiovese is, please pardon my curtness, but a black sheep bastard, if my opinion means anything anyway” “HEHEHEH” “Oh my God, did you see that atrocious suit he is wearing?” “How could his husband let him walk out of the house like that!” “HOHOHOH” “I can’t believe that red wine was paired with… well let me just say I think it is rather gauche…”
The lights strung from the catwalk above softly pulsated before being fully dimmed, and the hubbub quieted down. The curtains drew open revealing a completely darkened stage. The warm backlights slowly brightened. A steady bass drum began thumping, gently at first, but it steadily increased in tempo and volume. Fog seeped across the stage and then rolled like a waterfall down into the crowd.
In a flash, the golden archway at the center of the stage illuminated and out streamed the silhouettes of three bottles. They kneeled next to one another shrouded in darkness. In unison, three spotlights shone down on them. Their thick cuban link chains, diamond earrings and various bejeweled rings sparkled in the limelight. You could hear someone gasp and another whisper “It’s them!” Teal, cream and purple colored lasers shot across the stage as the bass started thundering. It was the hottest trio in all of tequila: Casa Migos.
The crowd erupted as the cans nearly blew the roof off the ancient Annheuser theatre. They performed new songs from their latest album: Yung Rich Cans. Their smash hits Ounces, Bad and Boozy, and Shaken not Stir Fried were all instant trap hits. To end their performance, they bowed and each threw a single piece of their gleaming jewelry into the crowd. Several men and women were resuscitated with smelling salts after being literally stunned by the bombastic performance. Once order was restored, the show continued.
Hennesy was the first choice of the academy to host the festivities, and was therefore conspicuously left out of the running for Best Cognac every year. Most people knew it was a race issue, but nobody was willing to publicly address the blatant bias that the academy held against dark liquors who criticized them. One could never imagine the depth of animosity Hennesy held for all of the intoxicants in the crowd as he jovially announced that Jameson would be this year’s Best Foreign Shooter! This was a lesser known award so, due to time constraints, the winner was not allocated any time for a speech. John Jameson humbly rose from his chair and gave a dignified wave before returning to his seat.
Jägermeister would not let this perceived snub slide. It wasn’t the ketamine, of which he had consumed entirely too much, as much as it was his own obstinacy that caused him to wobbly rush the stage. The only light in the room was the heavily backlit stage so as he climbed the stairs his massive sixteen-point stag antler headdress cast a long shadow over the crowd. A longbow and a quiver of arrows were slung across his back to complete his forced aesthetic. This was despite the fact that he had grown up in Berlin then lived in Milwaukee for the past thirty years, and therefore had never been hunting. The crowd fell silent. Jäger turned to his left and began speaking to a lone empty chair.
He hollered in a vaguely German accent, “Imma let you fisnish, but…” He waved his hand blithely as if dismissing the chair. The shadow lengthened once more as he turned to face the crowd and stumbled backwards before catching himself. “You guys really think that John FUCKINNN’ Jamessum is the best shooter in this place? I gotta say that I am hands down, and many people, many good people who know good things agree with me, the BEST shooter here. You are all insecure assholes that don’t fuck. Theees academy lets shitty ass Fireball in the whiskey category?? And somehow you all voted Malibu in as a pity win for that miserable, depressed asshole. Yeah Malibu! We all know that your place in Florida is just a goddamned rehab center! Hopefully, next time you’ll succeed in killing yourself…”
Security clambered up the stairs to yank the meister off the stage, but as they grew closer he slung the bow off of his shoulder and haphazardly knocked an arrow.
“Get back, you peons! I’ll show you who the best shooter is!” Jäger slurred. He pulled the drawstring back and aimed at Jameson. The “Master Huntsman” was knocked down as he fired, sending the arrow flying off wildly. Truly and Claw were seated in a private balcony suite so they were in no risk of being struck by the arrow, however the tumult caused Truly to reflexively grab Claw’s hand. The ringed hand was snatched away and Claw shot back an exasperated look.
The crowd let out a short, shrill collective scream as the arrow climbed up towards the rafters. The gut churning pop of torn aluminum and fizzing of spilled suds filled the ensuing silence. One of the imperceptible black clad stage-hands in the catwalks above screamed for help.
“Oh my God!” Truly exclaimed. She put her hand on Claw’s shoulder which was shrugged off immediately.
“Will you cut that shit out? It didn’t get anywhere close to us, and you’re being a drama queen. Please will you calm the fuck down?!” White Claw hissed through clenched teeth. Truly looked down to see his foot frantically tapping.
“Hah — that’s about right…” Truly muttered. “I’m going to get some air.” She rose from her seat and walked through the red velvet curtains which led into the darkened hallway.
Luckily, Dr. McGillicuddy was in attendance that night, and was able to wrap up the stage-hand’s wounds. Without this swift act of heroism, the twenty-something High Life would have certainly died. Thirty minutes later, the show was back on track sans Jägermeister. The fear and violence had caused the crowd to lose its appetite for pomp. They swiftly ran through the remaining awards.
There was a surprising upset in the best whiskey category as Maker’s Mark somehow stole the honours from the critical favorite, Knob Creek. Another surprise win came from Grey Goose as she swept the vodka categories including Best Vodka for a Martini and Best Vodka on the Rocks. Ciroc won the Best Bottle to Hold at a Club But Not Actually Drink Because That Shit is Gross.
Considering the commotion moments prior, the producers did not think it was appropriate to play the slideshow commemorating Yuengling, the beloved elder statesman that had passed earlier that year. Instead, Hennessy smoothly wrapped up the show with the final award of any real importance: The Blue Ribbon.
It was no surprise when PBR won for the 176th consecutive time. After all, he is the only beer with a Blue Ribbon. The crowd still gave him a resounding standing ovation. PBR was irresistible.
It had rained torrentially during the ceremony, but the sky was clear and empty now. The honey scented wind had picked up substantially and it felt as if it would cut right through Truly and White Claw’s aluminum. The bare branches of the trees whistled in the wind which provided a somber soundtrack to an otherwise quiet scene.
White Claw briskly walked to his car with Truly’s heels clicking several paces behind. Throughout the show, she was lost in murky thought and riddled with electric anxiety, but now her mind was settled. Only the gnawing trepidation within her gut remained. Truly’s head hung low and she momentarily stared at her reflection in the blackness of the shallow pools of water that had collected in the divots in the pavement.
“Claw?” Truly asked.
“What?” White Claw responded curtly.
“I think we need to –” Truly started.
“Oh great, here it comes again! Truly trying to break up with me! Looks like we are buying a ticket for this horrible roller coaster again! How many times? How goddamn times, Truly?!” White Claw screamed.
“H-how many what?” Truly stammered. She could feel the tears coming, but they were tamped down.
“How many times has it been? And how many will it be? How many goddamned times are we going to do this? You say you hate me, and, you know what, sometimes I really believe you. But you know what I know for a fact? That you need me. You weren’t anything until I made you into something, and you won’t be anything until I make you something again. So go. Do your fucking pouting. You know where to find me. I know you will eventually,” White Claw snarled. He slammed the door to his car and sped off.
As Truly watched White Claw peel out of the parking lot, she felt herself go flat inside. It was easy to hold back the tears now. Then she heard a friendly voice behind her.
“Hey, True,” PBR said meekly.
“Oh, hi, Pabst…” Truly said. “Did you see any of that?”
“Yes, but not for a lack of trying. I respect everyone’s privacy, but that was like watching a car wreck,” PBR said. “Are you okay?”
“Well, honestly… Yeah. I feel empty which I guess is an improvement. It is a good place to start anyway. I know what you’re thinking about me, but this is really it. I’m done with him. I don’t have time for jerks anymore,” Truly said. As she said this, she felt a sanctifying relief wash over her.
“Then I guess I’ll be making my exit,” PBR said. He feigned leaving before turning back around.
“Haha, shut up” Truly said. “Hey let me look at that Blue Ribbon! Look at this guy!” She tugged at the ribbon pinned to his t-shirt.
“You want it?” PBR asked. “I have like 175 more of these things.”
“No, I think it looks just perfect on you. Something about ‘Pabst Blue Ribbon’ just seems right,” Truly said.
“Do you need a ride home? I’m headed towards your mom’s place anyway,” PBR asked.
“Yeah… Do you mind if I just stay with you tonight?” Truly asked. “I need a friend and I can’t really handle talking to my mom right now.”
“Of course. That’s what friends are for after all,” PBR cheered. He opened the door to the Pabstmobile; a red, white and blue can shaped car that was a fixture in Pabst’s persona as permanent as his Blue Ribbon. She could feel herself becoming more carbonated.
“Thanks, Pabst,” Truly said. “I don’t know how I could have survived the night without a friend like you.”
After Claw left Truly, he had gone to a nearby club that his buddy, Busch, owned. The endless lines cocaine and MDMA did nothing to calm him down. He was standing out front of the club smoking a cigarette when the Pabstmobile passed by. His face felt hot and his stomach clenched as the image of Truly in a fit of genuine laughter, perfectly framed by the circular window of the Pabstmobile, was seared into his brain. The half smoked cigarette was pulverized with the tip of his almond toe shoe, and the last pathetic puffs of smoke were dissipated by the whipping wind. The sign above the door was knocked loose as he slammed it behind him.
Pabst had no intentions of trying to have sex with Truly that night. She was vulnerable, and he knew that he should not make a move despite the fact that they both were carbonated to a near froth. This was something that White Claw had no way of knowing.
Claw’s car left a trail of envious slime as he tailed them from a safe distance. Red lights lost all meaning as he blew through intersections and wove amongst oncoming traffic. The bitter white powder dripped down his throat and numbed his mouth. Small independent beads of sweat rolled down his can and crashed into each other to form large putrid globules. His tongue maniacally ran over his porcelain white teeth and pushed against his gums. He took another bump of coke.
The long winding road towards PBR’s chateau led the couple and their feverish pursuer through a beautifully bare patch of woods. The skeleton arms of the trees caused the pale moonlight to flicker across Claw’s face, and his dilated eyes remained locked onto the can-shaped car. He lit another cigarette, but never bothered to crack the window. Brown leaves gently glided in the air after being kicked up by the wake of Claw’s car. The honey smog of the city had been replaced by the rich smell of fresh earth, muddled pine and cigarettes. Animals scurried into their warm domiciles and curled into the arms of loved ones as he tore past.
The car was left several hundred yards away behind a thicket of rosewood trees. Claw took one last bump and started trudging through the wilderness. His frock coat had been lost at some point, but it made no difference to him now. After taking a moment to survey his surroundings, he saw PBR exiting the woodshed with an armful of firewood.
Claw waited at the edge of the treeline for an hour. Eventually, he slithered across the frozen ground and over the fence to the main property. He crept up to the living room window carefully and peered inside. If Truly or PBR had broken eye contact with one another long enough to look at the window, they would have seen two menacing bloodshot eyes peering back at them from the darkness. The smell of steak and the hickory firewood made Claw sick. He spun around and his shaky eyes focused on a large axe that was stuck into the chopping block adjacent to the woodshed.
When he burst into the house, he found them drinking tea in separate chairs and fully clothed. At that point it was too late to back out. Too late. Too late. Too late. It has to happen. I have to do it now. Now, now, now, now, do it. Fuck don’t. Make me. Don’t back out, keep going. What. Don’t stop, hurt… Fuck. Stop. No please. Stop. you never. You’re not. Please. NO pain. even. Pain pain pain. Can’t. loved. Please. How. No. me.
PBR’s only neighbors, the squat Modelos, were beginning their day at the bottom of the valley adjacent to the Pabst estate. The air was much cooler and the dark blue haze of early morning had not been dispelled by the sun. Feeling in the near darkness, Mrs. Modelo kissed her husband in their driveway with a newborn swaddled against her bosom.
The screams came bounding down the slope. A murder of disturbed crows scattered from a nearby tree and dotted the sky like splattered black ink on a dim grey cloth. The horrific juxtaposition of his cherubic child’s sweet smile and his wife’s panicked face set his legs into motion before his brain could begin to make sense of the situation. The family lunged back into their home. Mrs. Modelo speedily locked the doors and shut the blinds while Mr. Modelo fumbled for the phone. He dialed 911, but only hoarse stuttering left his lips.
“Hello? Hello? What is your emergency?” the phone barked. Mrs. Modelo snatched it from his trembling hand.
“Please, please I think something is wrong with our neighbor –” Mrs. Modelo pleaded. “I’m trying to stay calm — Sir, I am being calm! I don’t know! Please just go to 4481 Best Select Drive now!”
White Claw regained lucidity in a pool of suds and seltzer. The two mangled cans of Truly and PBR laid beside him, completely emptied.
“Oh Truly… Oh Truly, my Truly… What have I done?! Why, why, why!!” Claw screamed. He crawled over and held her mangled can against him. Photographs and books tumbled off the shelves as he flew into a rage and slammed the lip of his can against the wall. A sliver of the amber light of early dawn had barely begun to spread from over the horizon and bleed through the trees into the living room. Dew settled on the lush elephant grass, and animals crept out of their holes in the knobby fallen oaks. Their ears perked as the wails of a new animal crowded the fresh morning air.
Detective Pappy van Winkle and his young partner, Jim Beam, finally arrived at the Pabst estate after the crime scene had been secured, however they immediately realized there was not much to detect. The evidence was strewn all around them. Truly’s pull tab had been completely ripped off after popping her head clean open. She looked as if she had been through a garbage disposal.
PBR’s fatal wound ran from the top to the bottom of his can, and his pull tab had also been removed by being twisted back and forth and back and forth. The coroner would later describe in their report that the assailant would have had to work the tab like that for almost an hour to remove it so brutally.
“Goddamn, Pap, have you ever seen something so horrible? She was practically chopped in half!” Beam exclaimed. “All that dried seltzer on the wall… It’s so sticky… And that horrible smell… Oh God, I’m going to be sick agai –” He vomited into a nearby trash bin.
“Stay strong, my boy. This is a wretched scene, but I’ve seen worse. Much worse. The War was not good. I’ve seen whole cases of beer wiped out in the blink of an eye. They were there one moment and gone the next… When I was discharged, I guess I had a lot of hope for our future, but on days like today, when you see such brutal booze-on-booze crime, I wonder if the violence will ever end. War is a very different thing though. It doesn’t have the intimacy of something like this. Don’t feel bad, Beam. You’ll get used to it even though I wish you didn’t have to,” Pappy said.
Beam thanked him while wiping the vomit off of the corners of his bottle.
“Is he talking yet?” Pappy asked.
“He’s still muttering gibberish to himself curled up in a corner,” Beam said. “Do you want to give him a try?”
“Might as well see what the sumbitch has to say before we throw him away,” Pappy sighed.
Claw was handcuffed behind his back and rocking to and fro in the corner of the room. The gauze on his sliced hands was saturated with seltzer. Pabst’s Blue Ribbon was pinned to the breast pocket of the murderer’s beer covered shirt.
“How could you have done this, Claw?” Pappy asked. “You were America’s ‘It’ couple. Now look at ya.”
Claw did not look up and increased the pace of his muttering.
“What are you sayin’?” Pappy asked.
Claw continued to mutter and focused on the crack in the eggshell white paint. Pappy took a knee on the right side of the shaking can of seltzer.
“Come on now, boy. Don’t get yourself all shook up. Tell me why you did it,” Pappy van Winkle said with fatherly tenderness.
Claw’s eyes darted over to Pappy before shooting back to stare at the cracked paint once more. He spastically waved his head as a gesture for the detective to come closer. Pappy came close enough to where he could feel Claw’s rancid breath on the side of his face.
He whispered into Pappy’s ear. The detective’s eyes bugged, and then he slowly but deliberately stood up. Pappy silently gestured for Beam to follow him out front while he fished a cigarette out of the pack in his chest pocket.
The front porch floorboards creaked underfoot. The gentle, purple haze of twilight that accompanied that seemingly timeless part of the day had not yet scared off the moths. They danced around the dull yellow hue of the porch lights. After they settled on the joggling board, there was only the pulsating sound of crickets chirping and the flick of Pappy’s lighter. Sparks briefly illuminated his haggard face, but his hands were too shaky to produce a solid flame.
“Here let me get that for you, Pap,” Beam said. He took the lighter from the old bottle of whiskey’s hands. The cherry at the tip of the cigarette glowed hot as Pappy took a long, deep inhale and blew the smoke out of his nose. His hands still shook.
“So? What did he say?” Beam asked earnestly.
“I… In all my years… I just don’t understand…” Pappy said softly.
“What is it?!” Beam asked again.
“He said… Oh God…” Pappy said.
“Pap…”
“He said, ‘Ain’t no laws when you’re drinking Claws.’”
Millerwiller 