“I think you screwed something up.”
Bobby picked up the bottle, swirling the liquid inside. He took a close look and scowled.
“Yeah, you may be right.”
“I don’t think whiskey is supposed to be green.”
“Well, on St Patty’s Day it would be.”
“It’s not St. Patty’s Day, Bobby. And the whiskey is green.”
“Yeah, but it smells right. Smells more than right.”
“What about the taste?”
“I haven’t tasted it yet. It’s freaking green, Mark. I don’t know if it is safe to drink.”
“You followed the recipe, right? And the distillation went without a hitch, right?”
“Yeah, and it wasn’t green when it came out of the still.”
“So it must have happened in the barrel.”
Mark looked over to the barrel they had just topped their first bottle from. It looked like any other oak barrel.
“Mark, I dare you to try it.”
“Hell no Bobby. You made it, you drink it first.”
Bobby paused. He slowly uncorked the bottle and poured a shot into a glass. Hesitantly he lifted the green liquid to his lips and quickly downed the shot.
“Tastes like whiskey.”
“How are you feeling? Does it feel like whiskey?”
“Aye, tha’ it does, boyo. An’ a mighty fine brew it ’tis.”
Mark’s eyes widened.
“Why are you talking like that, Bobby?”
“Whut d’ye mean? I’m talkin’ as ‘ere I ‘ave. Are ye sassin’ me, Mark?”
“No, man, I’m not. You’re talking with a weird accent, Bobby. Almost like you were British or something.”
“I’m no Brit, ya sorry sod! Ya take tha’ back afore I …”
A knocking sound came from the barrel. Mark and Bobby turned in time to see the head of the barrel fly off and a short man step out.
“Oh lads, y’made a fine batch! ‘Twas a tasty bit ‘a Heaven in tha’ tun. Made th’ trip from Éire in tha’ tun all worthwhile.”