Free B Is for Beer by Tom Robbins Page A

brute seemed to be sucking in all the oxygen from the surrounding countryside. He gasped.
    Then he groaned. Then he rolled over onto his side. Because he was at the very edge of the hilltop, he, against his will, continued to roll. His body went tumbling more than a third of the way down the hill before its progress was stopped by a juniper bush. He lay there, in no apparent rush to get up.
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    While this was occurring, the fairy was rubbing her aching spine, flexing her rumpled wings, struggling to get back on her own two feet. She was done with her horror-movie bee imitation. Henceforth, she
    ’d leave buzz-bombing to the
    hornets. From a sitting position, she pointed her wand at the lummox who’d swatted her. As if undecided in which direction to move, he was shifting his bleary gaze from the sobbing maiden a few yards above him to his friend who lay unmoving farther down the slope. The fairy took aim. She fired a single amber beer ray at the area behind his eyes where his brain ought to be.
    It was a ray she ’d used countless times before to subdue quarrelsome sailors, rampaging soccer goons, and obnoxious fraternity boys, and she should have used it sooner on this occasion, but she ’d been so angry and upset she ’d lost her cool.
    When it struck its target, the beer ray would instantly raise the alcohol level in an imbiber’s blood to such a degree that his lights would begin to flicker, his curtains commence to close, and his internal clock to chime midnight. Now this farmhand, when hit, staggered back a few steps before stumbling blindly back down the hill, collapsing, and passing out cold beside his pal.
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    The fairy flew, if one could call such a wobbly display flying (she resembled some variety of popcorn moth trapped in an automatic popper), to Gracie ’s side, landing with uncharacteristic clumsiness on the child ’s shoulder. Together, silently, the two watched the young woman make her way down the opposite side of the hill, moving as fast as she dared without losing her footing. She appeared to be heading toward a distant farmhouse nestled between two barley fields.
    “That must be her family’s farm,” said the fairy at last. “She looks a mess. Her folks will think she ’s had too much beer at the festival and order her to bed without any strudel.”
    Gracie was fixing to comment on how unfair that would be when the Beer Fairy suddenly kissed her. (You’ll probably never in your life be kissed by a fairy, but should you be, you’ll know it, and you’ll treasure that kiss forever.) “You were very brave, kiddo,” the fairy said. “Very brave, indeed.”
    “Thanks,” said Gracie. “Hi de ho.”
    “I want to show you something, braveheart. Down there in the town.”
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    “You mean in Creamed-Beef-on-Toast.” Since she was so brave, Gracie thought she might as well say it. She ’d show her tiny guide she was not only courageous but also knew her geography.
    The fairy looked puzzled. “What the heck are you talking about, child?”
    “The name of the town: Creamed-Beef-on-Toast.”
    “Are you joking? Whoever heard of such a place? The name of that town happens to be Pimple-on-Chin.”
    “Yuck!” said Gracie.
    Considering that in seven years or so, Gracie would doubtlessly sprout pimples of her own—as will you, provided you aren’t pimpled already—it was scarcely an appropriate response.
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    Suppose, for example,” said the fairy, who was increasingly
    “ showing signs of recovery from the blow she ’d suffered,
    “that an airliner is flying over Pimple-on-Chin, bound for, say, Seattle.”
    Automatically, Gracie looked to the sky. She saw acres of blue, a gradually lowering sun, and a skinny white elbow of moon, but no plane. It was only an example.
    “And suppose,” the sprite continued, “that aboard that aircraft there ’s a passenger who’s on her way to Seattle to murder her