Bo Grizzleback's Arc

Chapter 3 of 8

By the third day the mash had settled to a clean blue under the glass. Bo drew off a small taste and set the spoon down slow. It was good. Better than good. But when he looked around the back room for something to pour it into on trader day, all he had were tin jiggers and mason jars scratched from years of use. A legend couldn't ride in a scratched jar. Aiden leaned in the doorway with his arms crossed. "Bro. You're staring at that shelf like it owes you money." Bo said he needed a bottle. Something that would stop a trader mid-step. Aiden pushed off the frame. "Come by the Cantina. I got something been sitting on my shelf longer than it should." They walked over under the noon sun. The Cantina's orange glass caught the light and threw shards of color on the sidewalk. Inside smelled like cumin and fry oil. Aiden waved off a cook and led Bo through the kitchen to a small office in the back. He climbed on a chair and pulled a wrapped shape down from the top shelf. Dust came with it. He set the bundle on the desk and unwound the cloth. Under the wrapping sat a crystal decanter shaped like a human skull. The facets caught the office light and threw sharp color across the wall. Bo let out a low whistle. Aiden shrugged like it was nothing. "My uncle left it to me. I don't drink brown liquor and it just sits up there collecting dust. Put your blue stuff in it, bro. Traders see this, they'll pay before they taste." Bo turned the skull in his hands. It held maybe a liter. Heavy at the base. The stopper was faceted glass and fit tight. He could see the whole thing on the bar under the pendant light, the moonshine glowing blue through the eye sockets. Bo tried to pay for it. Aiden waved him off and told him to bring the first pour back on trader night. They shook on it. Bo carried the decanter home wrapped in the same cloth and set it on the back counter next to the pressure rig. He rinsed it three times in clean water and held it up to the window. No spots. No scratches. He would rack the moonshine off the mash in four days and pour it straight into the skull. One decanter. One liter. That was the problem now. He had eight pods and a rig that could run more, but only one bottle worth showing. If a trader wanted to buy a case, Bo had nothing to sell him past the first pour.