Beers Be Warned: The Garrison's In Town

Beers be warned, for the Garrison (abridged) is back in town.

On Friday, after work, I called Pouria and Alex in hope that they were coming into town. They were.

Of this weekend there is little to be said and much to be remembered. Cops, locals, and even woman were involved in its exploits. Indeed, for some, nested in kindling that only the Garrison can provide, there were sparks of romance. However ineffable these experiences have proven to be, this can be said:

In the refrigerator, after two nights of Garrison, was a single bottle of Miller Highlife. Earlier that week, armies of its brethren huddled together, full, cold; thousands of them, gracing the weekend residents of Myrtle Beach with a warm and all but ethereal glow. Now, this one lay on its side, retired to the refrigerator, as if in resting from a weekend spent under siege. One by one, and at times, by twos, the beers had fallen to their enemy; fallen to champions and titans of men; fallen to the Garrison. These men with unquenchable thirsts and inexhaustible resources sat amongst each other and drank. They drank with mirth and and with vigor, both to those who could not join them, and also to themselves and their prowess. For in the company of true champions, one can set aside trappings of modesty.

In the aftermath there was nothing save a recycling can full of fallen soldiers, bruises, and the lapping flames of love.