The label on the beer bottle was simple - a field of wheat under a blue sky. Rustic, Fred had told the artist, and that's what he got. Just like the beer he had brewed. Rustic.
         It was an odd choice to open the season at Crumbs, the hottest hipster jive in town. Most of the artisan beers on tap were more fruity, somewhat refined, with weird interesting ingredients like chocolate or pomogranate extract or the coffee beans that have to be eaten and shat out by a cat before their worth $100 a pound. All of this went well with the gourmet cupcakery next door and the cyber defense pen-testers that live upstairs and have Aspergers social hours.
         "When I look at this label, I think of Eve's afterbirth," said Droove, the resident philosopher. Droove was Fred's childhood friend and paid to philosophize about anything that paying customers wanted to talk about.
         "Afterbirth?" Fred said. Usually Doove didn't go too far overboard with his conversation, but comparing his new beer to placenta wasn't exactly what Fred was hoping for.
         "Yeah, man, because women, you see....beautiful women...it's like they've always said, women gave birth in the fields. Imagine this beautiful field of wheat fertilized by the waters of a child being born, except for you, Fred, it's this beer and this place tht have been born. You have created it. Happy Birthday, Beer!"