Old Scratch lives in your refrigerator.
His body is part tiny dog, part flea, part amber colored lager, all unfiltered childhood nightmare fuel.
His grotesque form creeps out of darkness, only visible when the door is closed and the light goes out.
He crawls and stalks and eyes your food, watching, waiting, for his chance to feed.
He is the curdler of milk. He is the molder of bread. He is the rotter of eggs.
His gaze is fixed on all that is good. His is the life of spoiling and defiling. When you want a sandwich, pray Old Scratch has not been at home.
He was not always bad. At one point he was of the purist malts and yeast. He was crisp and friendly and loyal to his masters. But he had a scratch he could not itch. The flea in him bit and dug and infested his soul.
Soon the itch took over. The good in him was replaced by a desire to scratch. Scratch and scratch and scratch and scratch. Soon he was no longer good. All he could think of was the itch.
The warmth in his life disappeared. He retreated from all he knew. No longer did he ride the neighborhood animals, no longer did he find joy the warm fur of dogs and raccoon and lazy house cats.
He found his way to your fridge. The cold of the icebox matched the cold of his soul. As his skin numbed, the itch faded, but never disappeared.
He takes his pain out on your food.
If you want to keep your food safe, keep this tasty amber ale in a fridge with nothing else. Or leave him out to warm up.
Maybe he’ll be a little nicer. Maybe he’ll get worse. The only thing to be sure of with Old Scratch is that he has an itch, one that can’t be scratched.
8 out of 10.
Next up: Sam Adams East-West Kolsch!