It was time. Enough of this cat and mouse charade.
Pulled from the very back right of my refrigerator. A spot reserved for only the finest and most storied beverages. Your cap surrounded in a shroud of golden foil, off it goes; removed with needless care. The murky libation splits evenly in two pints. One for me, one for my best girl. She would sip, but I would sample and savor. Pumpkinhead is here, I can sense it, but we have company. There's a sweetness that betrays a great and wonderful ABV. And absent Pumpkinhead's watery finish there is a peculiar parting bitterness. It begs another taste. And another. And a third. And I've finished. And I'm already asking if we can go to the store and get more. Inspired and insistent, I can feel the surge of emotion; I'm pleading as a child would plead for a gumball or a quarter for the horsey ride. Can we please. Please. I know where to get it. But in no shape to drive, there will be no horsey ride. Horsey ride denied. Not tonight.
They next day I rushed to the only place I knew to find it, and after months of patient stalking, there they were. Dozens of them. Dozens. A miracle. The miracle I have waited so long for. Feigning class for a moment, I discarded all tact and brought an armload to the counter. At long last, Smashed Pumpkin is mine. The magically potent orange trophies are mine. Truly everything Pumpkinhead could be, if it only tried.
Giddyup.
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