Fear.

There are two types of fear in the world. Terror and horror. You might think these are synonymous at first glance. They both refer to very similar, but very different psychological phenomena. The latter, horror, refers to images that are scary. It emerges from jump-scares, from gore and blood, from things which instill disgust or aversion.

Terror is trickier to classify. In essence, it refers to the very stuff that fear is made of: errant ideas. Stray thoughts pregnant with fear of death, of the unknown, of the infinite. It is conceptual and abstract, and therefore very persistent. A picture of a bloody knife might make you ill for a second, but the thought of how very small and worthless human life is, in a cosmic sense, evokes profound terror.

Through costume and commerce, through pumpkins and parties, we’ve seen the history and the culture of Halloween. We also discussed goofy, cheesy horror movies before, and now we have anther couple of genres to outline before we arrive at the main event, at Halloween itself.  Now, we need to lay out the twin fears that this holiday feeds on.

Today is terror, and Friday will be horror. As such, with these two combating ideas of fear and dread, it should be appropriate to stage two pumpkin beers in opposition. A war of sorts, of existential dread against visceral disgust, of super-strong pumpkin shite and fucking weird taste that defies all reason. The next two brews are the outliers in the pumpkin-beer world, and indeed they embody the twin fears.

Terror in horror films is common enough, but much subtler than it’s bombastic twin. Dark shadows and deep psychological doom are what create these feelings. Modern horror movies sometimes grasp this aesthetic which Edgar Allan Poe built a career from. Movies like, say, The Thing (mostly), The VVitch, anything that lampshades Satan’s malevolence, and especially the Twilight movies. They all fill the mind with dread of the psychotic and inhuman beasts which dwell in the depths of nature, in the infinitie cosmos, within the human psyche.

Terror ought to come from a beer which invokes dread, which spawns the notion of how awful pumpkin beer could be. The natural place to look would be a beer that takes on wacky flavour and runs with it. But it can’t be in the typical way of a half-sweet, half sour piss drink that makes you want to drink a bucket of salt. It needs to be really fucking nasty, in a new and exciting way. It needs to show you just how weird and unpalatable beer could be.

If the effect ought to be unsettling and full of anticipation for how much worse it f=could fucking get, then Big Rig’s “Tales from the Patch” does the job. Not to say the brewery is bad altogether, here: their other beers are pretty good. But this ale is a monster of space-time that reminds one of death, mortality, and pumpkin pie.

Yes. It tastes like pie. No, I am not kidding. It’s an uncanny porter that unsettles the mind, so let’s have a sip and bear witness to the ascension of Yog-Sothoth.

Tales from the Patch Pumpkin Porter

Appearance

The label has a pumpkin skull that grins to me. The half-smile may be sly, or may be knowing. I don’t really care; the zombie hand is more important. It is an image dead, a creature grasping the holiday-spirit in cold embalmed hands. Nevertheless, the creepiness does evoke that Terror feeling. I’m anticipating what the can contains alright, and with as much dread as could fill a person’s brain.

The porter is dark and viscus. The carbonation is smooth and flitting, heavier than I’d expect from a dark ale like this. It puts me in unknown territory. Will this be rich and succulent, or crisp and snappy? Will it be like a gibbous moon, or will the sphere be full?

What awaits us is the taste, The betrayal that might dawn, that might bring false promise. There is expectation, alright, wrought forth from grasping claws.

Taste

Compelled to smell, I must give this a whiff. My wits are instilled, my nostrils pricked, my mind asunder and whirling. I see it now: a cake, or a pie. A pastry and filling, of orange glistening flesh and blistered crust. The image sits in my mind, stark and full of promise. What an eerie visage! It sits in a dark plate, disembodied, scorched and seared with flame. A corpse enshrouded, a spectre encrusted. Disconnected, detached. A fragment and no more.

 

 

 

~

 

 

 

It slides down my throat with sugary sweetness. It’s meign may be delightful, and it’s scent promising sweetness. But the uncanny does not leave me. It dwells on my mind, the cream and vanilla flavour far beyond what an ale ought to have. A clamor of sweetness, saccharine and deceitful.

This does not cease. It continues in the assault, with minimal flavors else. A dress of satin  and silk, hiding an empty doll with empty black eyes. It stares and watches you, unblinking and all-knowing. It sees me and I can’t stop looking at it it can see my mind open before it like a tome of the darkest secrets stripped naked all-seeing with no-eyes please stop it turn away

Mouthfeel

The sweet doesn’t stop why doesn’t it stop. It doesn’t sting or bite or tear or slice. Snaps and pops, smooth and sweet like velvet cake. No, not cake. Not cake at all. It is a drink. Drug that addles the mind. Dives it into pain and dullness. A lucid dream, waking and a nightmare soon.

I cannot stop drinking why oh god why it isn’t terrible yet I strikes my heart so. I must keep going on and on and on five more seven more my stomach swells oh god the pain. The pain of knowing the end. The end comes sweetly, death approaches with manic claws tearing and slicing the air. Prodigious and without compare. I lust after this doom, this luscious end. It never stops no never stops no

Verdict

No no it doesn’t stop it’s all the same the lying the same the unchanging the seduction the flabby slime that sloshes and squirms in every glass this season brings it. He is that I want to taste. That he I ought taste, to see the flavour beyond sense is a light made of endless black dark. Light warped and torqued in filmy night.

I see it all. The pointlessness. The whole world warps round this ale. This porter. The dread comes from how mad it drives me, how it offends my belief in the sensible world of malt beverages. A new, sweet twist that itself doesn’t strike fear into my heart. Yet the idea of yet more of these drinks is enough to bring my mind to the brink of madness. A madness deep and sweet, a siren song that sluices soundly in my sleep…

Ingredients

• Barley and Oat Malt
• Hops
• Pumpkin and SPice
• Milk and Sugar
• Top Yeast
• Water