Parkside Motel

This little piece of pulp fiction was inspired by Parkside Brewery’s Parkside Motel IPA and originally appeared on Instagram, November 26, 2017

The younger cop was fairly bouncing with excitement.

“Come on Shep,” he said to his older partner. “This time we have him! Dead to rights!”

Shep wasn’t nearly as confident.  An anonymous tip?  How often did those fall through?

“Jeezus, Stevie, keep it in your pants.  What was the number again?”

“99!  Room 99!  Just down the hall.  Oh man-oh-MAN this’ll be good!”

The two officers knocked at the door to room 99 of the old Parkside Motel.  “Come for the pool, stay for the beer” the half-lit fluorescent sign had proclaimed as the cruiser pulled into the lot.


“Come on out, Beer Guy!” Stevie yelled.  “We’ve got you surrounded!”

They didn’t, of course, in any sense of the word.

“Surrounded, Stevie?  Really?”

But the precocious young officer wasn’t listening: he was blinded and deaf to any thoughts other than bringing in his first big caller: Sea to Sky Beer Guy.  Before Shep could protest, the rookie slammed his police-issue, size 10 shit-kicker into the door, freeing it violently from the frame.

“God-dammit, Stevie!”

But now it was on.  Both officers drew their weapons and entered the room.  It was apparent within seconds, they were the only ones there.

“Shit-shit-shit, Shep!  This time I thought we had him!”

Shep sighed and started his secondary search, smiling slightly as Stevie swore his way down the hall to call it in.  Shep’s eyes zeroed in on the 27 inch technicolor TV, or more accurately, what was on top of the TV.  Right beside the rabbit-ears was the room key and a curious can of beer.  Shep picked it up, twisting the cylinder in his hand to take in the label.  He remembered the Beer Guy’s last taunt to the cops: “Once you go down this road, there’s no turning back, boys!” That had been written on a roll of toilet paper and thrown to them from the second floor of a brewery down in Van City.

Shep considered a moment, then cracked the can and brought it to his lips.  Before the liquid hit his tongue, the heady aroma of many hops in harmony hit Shep’s long-ago broken nose harder than a fist.

“SonuvaBitch!  Is that… what IS that?  Tropical?  Citrus?  Son. Of. A. Bitch.” Shep smiled and took a longer pull.

No turning back, indeed.


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