The Perfect Crime
I break into the brewery at midnight. Do I go to the cooler? No. I go for the cellar: it’s priceless. As I’m taking the most precious black smoked saison, a man catches me. He tells me to stop. He’s the head brewer. I say no. We share ideas for new recipes all night. In the morning the cops come and I escape in one of their uniforms. I tell him to meet me in San Diego but I go to Copenhagen. I don’t trust him. Besides, I love the cold. Five years later I get a postcard. He brewed our beer, and the world is going crazy for it. He needs me to come up with new brilliant recipes. This is where the story gets interesting: I tell him to meet me in Bruxelles by the Manneken Pis. He’s been waiting for me all these years. He’s never brewed another beer. I don’t care. I don’t show up. I go to Brooklyn where I stashed the precious black smoked saison.
