The Baker, The Butcher and The Brewer, Part Four – The Brewer 6

provocative fiction

Serial Fiction


After her multiple obtrusive phone calls went unanswered for several days, She was filled with ecstatic tonic combination of love and hate. She radiated it so extrovertly that people would step out of her way. And. She was on her way to the Brewer’s flat to find out what was brewing inside his silly head (her thoughts not mine). But! She loved him.

That was all she knew, she was thought to find a man slightly less intelligent than herself, wrap him up in her life, control him and have him facilitate her existence. Outside of this dogmatic upbringing she took fanatically close to heart, she had acquired only one other quality.

When her automatized responses to life failed she looked for happiness in pleasure. (The lowest type of happiness, I might add.)

The Brewer was accidently conditioned to look for happiness in engagement and flow. He was not aware of that but I was on my way to help him find himself.

You see why it was important to remove this squirrel from his life. Squirrel because she was edgy and introverted.

‘Eureka!’ She exclaimed condescendingly when she caught him right at the door. He had just parked the van and had a great day at the flea market.

‘Where have you been?’ Was her first most predictable of all questions.

‘Nowhere.’ He thought of the cowardly way he silently cut her of his life.

‘You want to go get some cheesecake?’ She soften up.

‘No thanks. I am busy.’ His passiveness didn’t really appeal to me. I had to take extreme measures.

‘Is someone else sending you love letters!’ She offenced.

‘No, it’s more like an adventure with the captain’s daughter.’ I took charge of the Brewer’s verbal apparatus.

‘So there is another!?’ She turned pale and breathless.

‘I didn’t want to limbo. I needed a change. I had to make a choice. It didn’t matter right or wrong.’ I explained.

The Brewer didn’t know how he had suddenly became so eloquent but he loved it.

‘I thought you are true to me. You always have been.’ She pleaded.

‘The routine clicks of our mechanical relationship were draining away my soul. Both our souls.’ I spoke with clarity to aid her understanding of my abstract explanation.

The Brewer has always wanted to be a successful abstract thinker. He was learning from the best. I had to do everything I could to keep him away from the people or- and wine-gasms were important to. Unanchor him from the yellow teeth nation.

‘I think about cheesecake sometimes.’ She was perplexed and boiled down to old sentiments.

She didn’t stand a chance. Against the Brewer alone, maybe. But! Against the New Brewer? No!

I was a conversational poet with nothing on my mind but producing verses of supreme flow and mystic logic. Out of my liquid soul. Digested reimagined world of metaphor and truth. Current folk are too busy for poetry. Contemporary art is short and uninviting. Courteously leaving room in their lives for mindless work.

‘The heart had more than one entrance.’ I concluded. Masquerading as a compassionate monkey riding an elephant and stepping all over her strawberry fields.

I delivered.

She was served a spirit crushing defeat. The Brewer tightly shut the door behind him. Well done – me.

She retreated back to her base camp. Pierced by a giant fork with society’s entire weight on the butt of it.

Then me, your humble narrator, and this young man could go on into perfecting our joint venture, the Brewer.

The purpose of which was art in its purest form, unbiased, unanchored, un-everything, free like the air. The Brewer would be like Bosch, leave art to the world without a trace of biography, notes, interpretations, personality or background to spoil the reading of his paintings.

The Brewer climbed to his refurbished rooms and settled to paint his first piece. Urged by an unexplainable force (me). He was never into the arts. It was a heresy in his family. (I convinced him he was experimenting.)

He prompted the canvas up and stared at it. It was limited in space but boundless in imaginary worlds it could hold. He started with something simple. A giant fat polar bear sitting on its butt taking up almost the entire foreground. He know it wasn’t enough but wondered for quite some time what else to add. That was where I came in to the play. I took a hold of the brush and painted a red and a blue ribbon on the bear’s neck. Then a long sword splitting its belly. Instead of guts people were coming out of it. Happy people. Mostly happy. I let the Brewer name it. He did so successfully. ‘America.’


Stay tuned for next week’s installment of The Baker, The Butcher and The Brewer – Tuesday, February 23.

previous chapter: The Baker, The Butcher and The Brewer – The Brewer 5

all chapters: The Baker, The Butcher and The Brewer


photograph by LoboStudio


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