Beer Garden

In the garden alone, a man wiped sweat from his brow. Beer bottles sprung up from the ground, condensation dripped from the opening to the body of the bottles. Lorne Clever pruned the smaller pints and gathered all the beer together. He found trouble when he discovered a pistol in his garden.

He looked around the entire area of beer growing on trees and vines. A perplexed look colored his face. He took on the role of protector of his land. He may have had an intruder, but he was bound to find whoever left the firearm.

He walked through the bottles and tinkled and clanked with his steps. He held the gun in his gloved hand. To steady himself and keep him from rage, he continued to march forth to see who was responsible.

Each step produced a greater understanding of the idea that not only had someone trespassed in his beer garden, but he wanted to know who did it. He inched up to his house and grabbed his mobile device. He searched for sightings of someone with a gun in Newark, Delaware. He sipped brew fresh from the garden. As he tapped the information into the device, he anticipated the amount of news stories. Not a single post came up on his screen.

With the power of his money which he generated from the beer, he could hire a private investigator. But he just called the cops and filed a report. This led him back to his garden. Now, he had found kilos of cocaine and a thousand pills of fentanyl.

Here, he got incensed. Some of his beers came up missing, too. He took off his gloves again and went for a ride. To put up his safety first, he grabbed his own gun. Safety first.