The Yard Warrior

Masked Creature:
And that, my friend, is how it is done.

Narrator:
My life fades. The vision dims. All that remains are memories. I remember, a time of barbeques, pizza and this beer sodden land. But most of all, I remember The Yard Warriors. To understand who they were you have to go back to another time, when the world was powered by beer, and the cities sprouted great microbreweries and bars. Gone now. Swept away. For reasons long forgotten two mighty warrior tribes went to war and touched off a blaze which engulfed them all. Without beer they were nothing. They had built a house of barley, malt and hopps. The thunder of the breweries sputtered and stopped. Their world dried up. Bars closed. A whirlwind of sobriety. A desolate land of beerlessness. Men began to steal beer from other men. On the roads it was a six pack nightmare. Only those mobile enough to scavenge, brutal enough to drink Schlitz would survive. The gangs took over the highways, ready to wage war for a can of beer. And in this sober desert ordinary men were forced to drink water, men like the Yard Warriors. In the roar of an engine they lost all of their beer and became thirsty men, burned-out, dehydrated men, men haunted by the yard work of their past, men who rode wheelbarrows out into the wasteland. And it was here, in this parched place that they learned to drink again...