As the night crawled over the sky, the saloon doors closed and opened in a rhythmic pattern. Rounds of beer were gladly enjoyed by those who wished to cherish the night, and those who wished to forget it. Tommy, who was a regular attender as well as an astute drinker, grabbed the nearest seat and ordered, "Fill me up." The bartender gladly welcomed Tommy back home, and filled up a tall glass of sparkling amber liquid, some rumored it to be the cup of life. Tommy smiled to the bartender and spoke in slurred words, "You, my good friend, gift me with such an infallible miracle." Tommy glanced proudly at his beverage of choice as if it were the first time he laid eyes on it, tilted his head back, and took a drink. The moment the beer hit his tongue, he felt at home and at peace once again. He swallowed it quickly and took another swig, but before it reached the bottom of his throat, it became warm and alcoholic. It was as if he was chugging gasoline, which he had only tried once, with little success or enjoyment. He delineated his misfortune to the bartender, who had set much higher precedent for his beverages. The bartender simply stated, "I didn't think you'd be able to notice it, considering..." He didn't go on, but only mumbled the last few words. It was true, Tommy was at best an alcoholic, but if anything that meant he knew his liquor. Honestly, this bar was interdependent on Tommy, the two running hand in hand in a field of daisies. Tommy had to ask, "Why is the beer so warm? I didn't want to drink scotch tonight!" The bartender only replied with, "We've run out." Run out of what? Tommy posed the question to himself, hoping to interrogate the situation. "Alright," Tommy yelled as he got out of his seat, wobbling, "if your beer is going to be the death of me, then I am going to resurrect by product of my beer, which will be exuberant, but still chilled." Tommy stormed out of the bar, racing to the nearest bus station he could find. Once the bus had finally arrived, he yelled to the bus driver, "Take me to a farm or bust!" The driver tiredly replied, "Sir, I can't do that, it isn't on my route." Tommy stormed away from the bus stop, angry and fired up with excitement. Suddenly, an idea sprung into his drunken mind. He raced to the pet store, and grabbed a baby pig. It had to be exactly twelve weeks old, or it wouldn't work. He then bolted to the convenience store, and bought two cups and a bottle of apple juice. After he had collected all of his supplies, he stumbled back into the saloon where everyone was waiting to view his new discovery. After a few oinks and trials later, he had created the perfect malt beverage. He gave it a sip, careful to ignore the pig discretion -- the secret ingredient -- when testing his invention. It stung the tongue, gave a blast of flavor, and tasted good warm! A success! "Alright, here you go bud." A group of men exclaimed to the bartender, bringing a chunk of ice into the warm saloon.
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