My afternoon was filled with meaningless spreadsheets at work.  Catching up on the things I would have otherwise taken care of had I not been required to sit in on Zoom meetings all morning between various corporate overlords and data geeks with little idea what any of these numbers actually mean.  Then it happened.

The doorbell rang.

The tiny ass dog began her usual yap fest at what I assumed was a working-class Amazon driver because he couldn’t get his damn camera phone to work to complete his delivery.  Stupid porch pirates. The infernal yapping continued until she realized it was a FedEx guy.  The tiny ass dog has the typical chihuahua hatred for everything, but has a soft spot for FedEx on account of their not being the post office.

I opened the box and was surprised at what was inside…

 

It came with a note:

Good afternoon,

For some reason, Mr. Swiss invites you to Das Schweitzer Oktoberfest this weekend at Millennium Park in Chicago.  If you weren’t such a goddamn lush you might notice a plane ticket is in the box underneath the Founder’s Märzen, who is sponsoring the event.  He said to be prudent with travel expenditures, so I took it upon myself to book the redeye on Spirit Airlines out of Mesa-Gateway…

He also said to include the word “cordial,’ so you are cordially invited to die in a plane crash riding steerage.

MAGA bitch.

Respectfully,
Prathiba Bhatramanshakenaniken, MBA
Executive Assistant, Swiss Corps International Industries

Of course, they put me on a redeye out of an airport an hour away.  At least I get a free beer out of this.

_____

“Mex!  You made it!”  Several hundred people were stumbling over their own feet in the park and the only person left sober to find me was Sugarfree.

“What choice did I have?” I asked.  “They paid for the plane ticket, finally.”

“Its been so long, Swiss was very excited for Masskrugstemmen.  He’s been training for two years now and boasted he could even beat STEVE SMITH.”

“Its not bragging if you can back it up.”  I replied.

“He plans to.  He made sure STEVE SMITH was also invited.”

“They invited a sasquatch with poor impulse control to an Oktoberfest?”

“Like that’s something unusual for Chicago.”

_____

“Kandidaten bereit?”  Swiss shouted in a tongue I was not familiar.

“STEVE SMITH READY FOR RAPE.“

“Gut. Sehr gut.” Swiss replied. “Ich zu Kick…Ihre…Arsch”

“What the hell is he shouting?”  I asked.

“Just do what they do.”  Sugarfree answered.

“You’re not even playing.”

“Beer contains unprocessed sugars.  I can’t drink beer.”  Sugarfree said as he took a swig from a flask.

“Heben Sie Ihre Steine!”

Dutifully, lines of an unusual combination of people raised their stein filled with Founder’s Marzen.  Ranging from rainbow lederhosen, white guys with dreadlocks, snug European cut slacks and open collar shirts, hipsters, Turkish street vendors, neckbeards in cargo shorts, Nigerian royalty, the colorful thin line flag people, Arab sheiks, men with ponytails, over-perfumed Persians with gold necklaces, people otherwise pretending to be German, and a seven-foot Sasquatch all began the competition.

“This seems…unnecessary.”  I said.  I clutched the stein with both hands and drank half of it, eliminating myself from the competition with a hearty belch.  It was delightfully malty with a slight, crisp bite that left me with the feeling I could drink another hundred of these.

“Mex! Ich wusste, dass du es nicht hacken konntest!”  Swiss shouted with delight.

“Um…yeah.  Thanks for the beer?”

_____

Hours passed.  Only Swiss and STEVE SMITH remained standing tall with their mighty steins in front of the enormous polished turd people were gathering around in the park.

“It really does suit Chicago, doesn’t it?”  Sugarfree asked.

“What does?” I asked.

“An enormous polished turd as a tourist attraction.”

“I really hate when you do that.”

“I really hate when you try to close off your thoughts from other people.  It makes our relationship more awkward than it needs to be.”  Sugarfree said flatly.

“Fine. What am I thinking about now?”

“You’re wondering if all those Incels with red hats are marching towards our Oktoberfest.”

“Yeah, but that was kind of obvious wasn’t it?”

A group of what appeared to be Proud Boys began to shove their way into the crowd.

“BuCk FideN!”  A skinny man with a bullhorn shouted.

“BuCk FideN!”

“MuCk his FanDaTe!”

“MuCk his FanDaTe!”

“BuCk FideN!”

“BuCk FideN!”

It quickly turned into a heavy metal concert with all the shoving from short, skinny teenagers, overturned beer kegs and groups of Incels ganging up to wail on the Arab sheiks and the Perfumed Persians.

“It does looks like a Tool concert.”  Sugarfree said.

“Es braucht mehr als Incels, um mich STEVE SMITH zu schlagen.”  Swiss shouted amidst the commotion.

The commotion lead to police involvement, who were no match for the destructive, right wing mob.  Riot police would soon be arriving.  Some asshole stepped on my shoe.

“It’s beautiful isn’t it?”  I heard Sugarfree from a distance.

“What?”  I turned and found Sugarfree under a tree, behind a canvas.  I walked over to find him serenely painting the entire scene.

“BuCk FideN!”

“MuCk his FanDaTe!”

“BuCk FideN!”

“Sie werden dich dazu bringen, STEVE SMITH fallen zu lassen.”  Swiss continued to taunt STEVE SMITH as he was beginning to be surrounded by a group of Incels.

“What I like about painting, is there is nothing but calm, happy freedom.  I am going to take a fan brush here and put a few flames on that Arab guy over here.  It feels right in the moment.”  Sugarfree said quietly. “There’s nobody, there’s nothing to tell me what I need to do, or how I need see it.  Its just me impressing myself.”

“Very….expressive.”  I said.

“On one of my bad days, I might add a burning cross, but is so lovely.  Happy little people beating up on darkies and foreigners.  Look at how happy they are?  All ganging up on STEVE thinking they have a chance against a Sasquatch.”

The Incels had finally swarmed around STEVE SMITH.

“STEVE SMITH NOT LIKE CROWDS”

The seven foot Sasquatch picked up a skinny teenager and began using him as a club.  Beating his way through the crowd of Incels.  The hollow sound of bony bodies smashing against the enormous polished turd echoed across the park.

“All done.  Let me just sign this here…” Sugarfree said.

“Süßer Sieg” Sugarfree, 2021

“Did Swiss just orchestrate a riot to sabotage STEVE SMITH to beat him at Masskrugstemmen?”  Sugarfree asked?

“Süßer, süßer Sieg!”  Was the last thing I heard Swiss say, as he raised his arms in a V for VICTORY.