In the sun-drenched courtyard of a modest yet suspiciously well-stocked tavern known only as The Tipsy Squire, two knights squared off—not with broadswords or lances, but with something far more ancient and terrifying: a weathered, dog-eared deck of Uno.
On one side stood Sir Lupulus the Hazy, sworn defender of the Order of the Hop, clutching his goblet and a green reverse card like it was holy scripture. Across from him, Baron von Yeast, whose armor smelled faintly of pine and regret, narrowed his eyes over a hand that bristled with Draw Fours like a porcupine with a vendetta.
They called this sacred contest Dual Stimulation, though no one quite remembered why. It involved no actual stimulation and certainly no dueling, at least not in the traditional sense. Instead, it was a ritual game played with solemn intensity, and the loser—by ancient tavern law and the ever-thirsty gaze of the barkeep—had to drink the dreaded brew.
This was no ordinary ale. No. This was a Double Dry Hopped West Coast IPA, strong enough to make a troll hiccup and smooth enough to trick a dwarf into dancing. Brewed with the triumvirate of hopdom—Citra, Eureka, and the rarely-seen-but-always-fashionable Barbe Rouge—it boasted a noble backbone of malt, underpinned with the tangled tastes of red currants, raspberries, dark fruits, and something piney enough to make you think you'd kissed a Christmas tree.
The game escalated.
“Draw Two!” bellowed Sir Lupulus, slamming the card down like a gauntlet.
Baron von Yeast grunted, drew the cards, and with a cunning glint in his eye, laid down a Skip, followed by a Wild, and then—like a conjurer revealing the final dove—a Draw Four.
The crowd gasped. Somewhere, a lute-player missed a chord.
Sir Lupulus looked at his dwindling hand. “You monster,” he whispered, with the reverence usually reserved for dragons or aged cheeses.
And so, the ritual concluded. Sir Lupulus, now defeated, lifted the tankard of Dual Stimulation. The drink shimmered, alive with hoppy menace. He took a solemn sip—and then another, because while defeat was bitter, the IPA was smoother than a bard on payday.
The tavern cheered, the deck was reshuffled, and somewhere in the distance, destiny belched politely.