Recently, The Slayer found himself in such a position. He had been out in the wilderness for quite some time tracking beverages of the malt ilk. His palate was taxed and his senses had become dulled. One brew experience had started to meld into another. The Slayer had little definition or direction. The needle on his beer compass was spinning about like a Texan's stomach after ingesting several bowls of rootin' tootin' chili.

Having reached the yeasty depths of his fermented soul, The Slayer, empty beer glass in hand, got on his knee and prayed to Maltavius for assistance. "Please, oh Great One of Beer, I am lost here in the malt beverage wilderness," he began. "I need a sign to tell me which beer will help me regain my malty strength and light the path you have chosen for me. In beer I pray. Prost." After his little chat with the Grand Pubah of Brew, The Slayer went to sleep.

That night, as The Slayer lay tossing and turning in his grain bed, he had the most incredible dream. During this nocturnal illusion, The Slayer found himself floating around in space; his weightless form meandering about aimlessly without purpose.

Suddenly, The Slayer's dreamy body was drawn toward an azure light emanating from a distant cluster of stars. As his malty form gravitated toward these gaseous emanators of light, The Slayer began to see the stars' forms. There, in the distance, were many cobalt blue, phallic shaped entities affixed on the celestial horizon. From each emanated a beacon of blue light.

Closing in on the sources of the radiance, he could see that they were shaped just like 12 ounce bottles of beer. Although The Slayer's mama always told him to never look into the eyes of the sun, he stared at these stars for quite some time; that's where the fun is.

These celestial beings had markings on them. Though he peered at them for what seemed an illusory eternity, The Slayer could not make out the message they had for him.

At the end of the dream, The Slayer heard the deep, slightly slurred voice of Maltavius saying to him, "My son, the answer lies in the heavens."

With that, The Slayer was abruptly awakened by the cool, viscous lap of The Brew Hound's tongue. Coming to full consciousness, The Slayer found himself lying on the floor next to the bed with all the blankets mummifying his malty form.

"The answer lies in the heavens? What could that mean?" The Slayer wearily mumbled to himself while attempting to overpower gravity's pull to become upright (this is no easy task for The Slayer). All the while he prepared to go to work, The Slayer pondered those mysterious words. He knows that beer is a heavenly drink but why would Maltavius tell him to peer skyward to find the solution to his problem?

Taking Maltavius' words literally, The Slayer spent the entire morning heavenward. While this practice revealed no answers, it did cause him to bump into several people on the sidewalk and abruptly encounter a lamp post. Frustrated and bit banged and bruised The Slayer gave up his skyward gazing. He came to the conclusion that the nocturnal words of advice were the result of the extra garlic and anchovy pizza he had eaten for dinner and not Maltavius.

Dejected and disillusioned, The Slayer walked into The Beverage Boutique to enjoy a brew and think. As is always his practice, The Slayer first went to shop's cornucopia of malt beverage to see if any new beers were on display. Positioning himself in front of the impressive display, The Slayer felt a rejuvenating energy fill his body. His malty soul was once again at peace.

Suddenly, The Slayer's eyes were drawn to the top shelf of the beer display. There, much to his amazement, were the cobalt blue bottles from his dream. The labels, which were but foggy images before, read A-P-O-L-L-O: one picturing a slice of the moon, the other featuring a rocket. "Look to the heavens..." It all makes sense now. The moon and the Apollo space program are the heavenly signs Maltavius has sent me. I must have this beer!

The Slayer's loud outburst startled an elderly couple looking for a nice white zinfandel. With looks of fear on their faces, they quickly exited the premises. Undaunted by their reaction to his vociferous display, The Slayer immediately grabbed the two bottles and put them in the cooler to chill.

Fifteen minutes later, The Slayer pulled the symbolic vessels from their cold storage. Opening the Apollo ale, the bottle with the moon on it, he carefully poured it into his Shaker pint glass. Bringing the beer to his nose, The Slayer could smell the sweet aroma of malt complexity with a pleasing hint of the scent of the hop flower.

Having read in the interim that this beer had been aged in American white oak casks, The Slayer expected this brew to be an India pale ale. (He knows that this style was traditionally shipped to India in oak vessels.) Thus, he expected the hop aroma in the bouquet to be fully realized in the beer's flavor. Much to his surprise it was not.

As he took his first sip of the brew, The Slayer's palate sensed the wonderful complexity of the malt and subtle "toastiness" of the oak aging. However, this was not usurped in the finish by the abrupt presence of hops; as is customary for India pale ales. The two distinct flavors were smoothly melded so that neither overpowered, but actually complimented the other from start to finish.

This velvety interplay of malt and hops was something The Slayer had never experienced before. Even though, being a devout hop-head, he thoroughly enjoys a well hopped beer, The Slayer was enamored and pleased with the taste of Apollo Ale. His palate was beginning to come alive.

After slowly disposing of the balance of the ale, The Slayer, rinsed his glass and poured the rocket adorned Apollo lager into the vessel. Placing the beer 'neath his olfactory organ, The Slayer sensed a similar, yet slightly muted, bouquet compared to the ale.

As the lager breached his malty lips, The Slayer immediately noticed that this brew had body and character. It was not another weak, American lager facsimile. Malt complexity performed a languid waltz upon The Slayer's tongue as hops did a light jig in the background. As if choreographed by a Broadway dancer, the two flavors perfectly accentuated each other in an unequaled performance.

The silky smooth flavor and finish possessed by this lager gave The Slayer reason for pause. Never before had he tasted a bottom-fermented beer that had so perfectly interwoven these two contrasting tastes. Now fully awake, The Slayer's palate eagerly indulged itself in this wonderful brew.

"Look to the heavens, indeed," The Slayer thought to himself. "I am now ready to forge on. My fermented soul is cleansed and renewed. Maltavius, thank you for guiding me to the wondrous beers from Big Bang Brewing Company."

With that, The Slayer left The Beverage Boutique with a spring in his limp. As he neared his office to begin working again, he realized that the reason the Apollo beers had been so unique was due to their oak aging which no other American beer has. In looking to the sky, The Slayer experienced the terrestrial treasures of malt, hops and wood. Space may be the final frontier, but the earth's bounty is far more limitless. And the stars winked back in agreement.