As of late, The Slayer has been so busy prowling the bars and package stores of greater Wilmington that he has had little chance to embark on a safari in uncharted territory. As it so happens, last week The Slayer managed to break free from the confines of this town, so neatly tucked away at the end of the Earth. Heading the advice of John Soule, which Horace Greely made popular, The Slayer decided to go west. (This move is even more prudent when you consider that to go east would involve the unpleasant physical exercise of swimming with drowning an inevitability.)

His general course laid, The Slayer pointed his trusty steed up the trail known as I-40. Having no real destination in mind but enjoying the journey for the travels sake, The Slayer continued on toward the setting sun. This portion of I-40, between Wilmington and Raleigh, is one of the most nondescript stretches of interstate The Slayer has ever driven. (Of course, he has never had the pleasure of driving through Kansas; so his perspective may be a bit skewed.)

Since there is nothing of visual interest along this route, The Slayer takes this time to think and plan upcoming safaris. Being of great mind, thinking tends to sap all of the energy from The Slayer very quickly. His mental dexterity allows him to look at problems from a multitude of angles on several planes simultaneously. While this ability is remarkable, it drains The Slayer rapidly. He actually burns 500 calories each minute he thinks.

Thankfully, besides being bereft of scenery, this portion of I-40 does not see much traffic. Therefore, even though groggy from pondering the world's problems, The Slayer did not have to contend with many other motorists on his trip west. Another saving grace for the road weary Slayer is the pungent odor of porcine waste whimsically wafting through the air about halfway to Raleigh, in Robeson and Bladen Counties. This aroma would make a narcoleptic sit up and take notice.

The only problem with the pick-me-up provided by the smell of hog feces is that it only lasts as long as the minute particles of skat are making their way up your nose. Soon after passing these points of olfactory bombardment, The Slayer once again felt tired. Knowing that a beer and a meal would help him recoup his power, he decided to make a stop in Wilson, NC, the "Barbecue Capital of North Carolina." These people have to do something with all those hogs.

This North Carolina town tucked somewhere between the Piedmont and the Sea is not exactly a haven for beer connaseurship. In fact, rumor has it, the issue that swung the last mayoral election in Wilson was the "Tastes Great, Less Filling Debate" between the candidates. It seems more people in Wilson believe in great taste.

The Slayer, well aware that he has stepped into another flavorful beer black hole, decided to skip the taverns of Wilson in favor of the home of his friend James Raymond Locklear. James Raymond (yes, you must address him by both names) is the older half-brother of Jimmy Ray Oxendine, The Slayer's NASCAR advanced compadre. It seems their mother ran out of names.

On this warm March afternoon, The Slayer expected to see James Raymond sitting on the porch in his genuine Naugahide couch. Much to his surprise, neither James Raymond nor the couch graced the peeled paint front entrance of the house. The Slayer knew he was home because his 1981 Ford pickup, with the "Don't Blame Me I Didn't Vote For fill in the name of the current president" bumper sticker and gun rack, was parked in the driveway.

Parking his steed beside James Raymond's chariot, The Slayer went to the front door to investigate. He found James Raymond sitting at his kitchen table looking like someone had just fed his prize Blue Tick arsenic. What's wrong, James Raymond? The Slayer inquired.

They made me take all my apolstered furniture off the porch, he replied.
What, who? retorted the entirely confused Slayer.
The Wilson town council voted last Friday to enact an ordinance banning apolstered furniture from the front porches of all residences. My nasty neighbor, Miss Kensington, turned me into the local authorities. They were out here bright and early this morning with a citation. I had to move my favorite couch off the porch or face a fine. Can you believe that, Slayer?

No, Wilson has always been the poster town for casual Southern living. This may be a bad time but I dropped by for a beer. I'm right in the middle of a western safari, I guess you could call it an expedition, and am parched from the road. I'll take whatever you are having. If you have another to spare.

James Raymond said, Slayer, I always have a beer for you. Besides, I don't think you have had this brew before. It would give me great pleasure to supply The Slayer with a new quarry. With that, he walked to the refrigerator and grabbed a bottle of Paulaner Brauerei's Bavarian Alpine Extreme and handed it to the intrigued Slayer.

You're right I have never even seen this beer before, The Slayer exclaimed. Where did you find it? It looks like a Bock. I thought you did not care for that style.

Normally, I am not much of a Bock drinker, but my sister bought me this beer to drink on the front porch the first nice day of Spring. Since today the temperature reached 80 and my couch no longer has a home outside, I decided to drink it in here, James Raymond responded, a touch of disdain seasoning his words.

I think I'm going to make this a yearly tradition, he continued. I've been reading this bottle and it seems the perfect beer to commemorate the day Wilson took my outdoor lounging comfort. Paulaner has been brewing beer since 1634, now that's tradition. Just like the Southern custom of adorning one's front porch with colorful, yet practical, apolstered furniture.

Continuing his rant, Also, Bock is the German word for goat. That's what I feel like, a scapegoat. Those damn Yankees that moved down here are impinging on the heritage of us natives so they can increase their property values. My family never worried about such things because we have lived in this house for 129 years. I think them Northerner's Mercedes Benzes are an eyesore. Each one they buy takes another American job. Why, I ought to...

Excuse me, Slayer, I need to be alone with my thoughts. The Slayer never thought James Raymond would shut up long enough for him to experience Bavarian Alpine Extreme. As soon as he walked to the porch, The Slayer poured the beer in his trusty pint glass and began assessing it's head and color. The light, frothy white head dissipated quickly. This is not uncommon for a beer of this style. The color, a rich amber color, enticed The Slayer to continue on with the tasting.

The brew's aroma was barely detectable. What could be drawn from the beverage was malty and sweet. The flavor, the final and deciding test for any malt beverage, was malty, sweet with a clean herbal hop finish that prepared the palate for another sip. All in all, this Bock was quite good. The Slayer believed James Raymond would not be disappointed with his symbolic, couch brew.

After finishing the Bock, undisturbed, The Slayer walked to the porch to say goodbye and console his distraught friend. The sun was setting over James Raymond's pile of tires, the three cars he had on blocks and the 350 engine he had hanging from the live oak in the front lawn. My, those crome headers sure do sparkle in the sunlight, James Raymond, The Slayer said.

Yea, they are beautiful. Someday, I'll put that motor in one of those cars. They can take my couch, but they'll never take away my Southern heritage. I'll fight and die for the right to keep this lawn exactly as it is today. Long live Dixie.