Mango Double Juice Train
Deeds Brewing Co

Edited down (a lot!) from NBW #172.

I entered the property and found the victim, or what was left of it, alone, placed atop a brick wall beside bright purple flowers, truly an incongruous setting for such a crime. The breeze ruffled the branches of the pear tree a few paces from me, but the tree offered no answers and uttered no truths. Beside the tree, the bananas stood, silent mourners, aghast at what had happened. I felt their eyes, felt the limes demanding answers, the angry apples demanding retribution. But I was not the arbiter of justice today. My job was merely to report the clues my careful observations would gather.

The victims had been utterly pulped, shredded, and literally juiced to their constituent flesh, their very innards on display. Placed in a glass, it looked like a radioactive mango had imploded. The gleaming, bright remains sat with a thin rim of bright-white foam. Clearly, the victims had been pulped. There was no way for light to penetrate the thick, juicy mass and no chance of seeing the gasses of life pulsing in the glass. All was still. Though it sat unmoving, I swore it accused me of unconcealed voyeurism and ghoulish intensity as I probed the mystery before me. In the dark recesses of my mind, that quiet, insistent voice urged me to acknowledge the beauty of what I saw.

Clearly, mangoes had been sacrificed to construct the liquid before me. But who would do this? To what end would my kin be treated so? One thing was clear as the scent of my dead compatriots reached my nose: the mangoes that died here had injected the very essence of their aroma into the liquid before me. I leaned forward, seeking better access to the scent, to accept what clues it proffered. The voice in my head snickered and all went black. In a fleeting moment, it was like a presence had cut open a mango and plunged my nose physically into the flesh. I pulled back in horror, taking a large, panicked breath through my nose. There was mango. Sweet mango for days. Mango and more mango, plus the slightest whiff of vanilla, the unmistakable, spicy smell of hops and alcohol lying under everything... It was lovely... Wait, hops? Here, now? In 2023? I snapped back to reality, voices in my head quiescent. To my horror, I found I was crouched Golem-like over the glass, inhaling its heady aroma. I looked around. The bananas had their back to me, deep in discussion with the apples. The limes spoke quietly amongst themselves. All had missed my dip into insanity, all but me and the sweet, heady presence before me.

I looked back at the glass. My senses told me clearly what had happened here. Mango murder. The criminal hand of hops had left their fingerprint across my nose and in the glass. But I needed to be sure. I knew there was one way to be certain of what sat before me. But it screamed heresy and darkest crimes. To sup the flesh of kin was the ultimate in betrayal, of carnal indulgence of the sense at the expense of the soul. The seeds planted in my nose were the clearest evidence of what had happened here, but supposition would not hold in court. I checked that none monitored my actions, and I quickly drank. The liquid was mango, but it was not one-dimensional. There was a clear and present alcohol and hop burn with every mouthful. Those notes went against all decency; the ruling HazeBois would never accept the bitterness present here. But these hops were clever; they'd covered their tracks with a touch of creaminess, a balm to soothe the fluttering heart of the hazy soul not used to bitterness. A trail to throw the gullible off the real crime and its perpetrators: dastardly hops.

But what I'd just done burned me, and hop creep left a warming sensation in the throat and gullet. Though the body that lay in the glass was full and fluffy, the gasses of the life that had passed were present, and carbonic prickle was high. I suspected that the stabbing, carbonic note stopped everything from becoming overly sweet and that the carbonation strove to keep balance.

I roused myself from my thoughts. The bananas watched me. The apples stood, arms crossed, awaiting my summary. They'd missed what had happened here, both the initial crime and my secret, shameful actions. But what I did I did in the name of justice, no matter what the voices said. I sought redress for the poor mangoes. The evil hops that infused this liquid had no place in 2023, and must be brought to justice, cleansed from this citrusy, pastry-infused world. Tropical sensibilities and hazy trends demanded it. There was no subtlety here. This crime was big on fruit, big on hops, big on flavour, big on alcohol, big on me loving it. I nodded to my silent audience, turned and headed to my car, the voices mocking me loudly. Though this crime-solving mango had a report to make, it shamefully had a beer to dream of, and the voices would not let me forget. I was a broken being, but I broke in the name of mango justice, and mango justice I would have.

Cheers!
#358