(Westport, MA) – Just Beer at Buzzards Bay Brewing likes to think out of the box. That is to say, they consider themselves a clever bunch of knuckleheads.
Just beer is proud to reveal a unique collaboration between brewer and author. “The Case of the IPA” is a hard-boiled detective farce printed chapter by chapter on 12 bottles of a newly released India Pale Ale. Each 22 ounce bottle not only has 22 ounces of brilliantly deduced IPA, but also 1 of the 12 chapters of the story. Each case has 12 bottles, which makes for the entire tale told in a case. And so, the Case of the IPA is indeed a case of the IPA. Brewer Harry Smith proposed the idea to author Paull Goodchild and they quickly agreed on a format: a noir-ish detective serial. Smith brewed up a batch of hoppy craft brew whilst Goodchild penned the story. It’s a mystery of zany brewers and their intrigues; sure to tickle the ribs and please the belly of any fan of craft beer. As this is a bottle by bottle mystery, Just Beer reminds all to “please read responsibly.”
Without further adieu, we share chapter one of the tale (unfortunately for you [especially as it is Friday] sent without 22 ounces of hoppy, delicious IPA. Drop by for a chapter to sip upon.)
The Case of the IPA, Chapter 1:
I do not boast. My credentials are those of an intrepid adventurer. They are both obvious as the scar on my cheek and subtle as the squint in my eye. For several years now, I’ve been a two-bit shamus in a dirty, gritty, bluesy, and cool city of some renown. I stepped when the boil got too hot on The Case of the India Pale Ale. It started with a summons from a wealthy brewer named Cornelius Fuggle(no relation). He lived in a swank starter mansion in the ‘burbs. The casual staff showed me to his office, knocked once then gestured. I opened the door, pushing against a stack of papers and books. ‘Mind your step,’ came a distracted disembodied voice. I weaved through the OCD towers of yellowed tomes into a clearing dominated by a giant repro of an ersatz antique chart. Fuggle was plotting a route from Blackwall to the sub-continent, getting data from a mildewed log, fiddling with dividers and a straight edge, drawing with a quill dipped in a well of his own blood. ‘Authenticity!’ he exclaimed then passed out.