People seem to think that being The Slayer is an easy, uncomplicated vocation. Little do they know, with new beers appearing salvo after salvo, being The Slayer is a job that is never ending. Although he tries to taste every new brew before it has a chance to drop below 52 degrees in the refrigerator, there are so many beers and just one Slayer containing only one liver.

His never-ending chore, to drink as many new and different beers as humanly possible and report on them, sometimes becomes so overwhelming that now and then a beer may slip through the cracks of his malty palate. The Slayer does apologize for these oversights.

It is well known that The Slayer can jump a keg with a limping start while perfectly pouring a weiss beer into a glass and slay and decipher the merits of a fine beer while teaching people what it means to be dry hopped. While these feats may make The Slayer appear omnimaltic (all powerful after a few beers), they truly are the accomplishments of someone who is only sub-super human.

Yesterday, The Slayer finally tracked down a bottle of Pet's Wicked Maple Porter. In an exhaustive search, he came upon this elusive prey at Paddy's Hollow. Reveling in the fact that he had cornered and was about to slay yet another new brew, The Slayer lost his senses for a moment and actually drank the beer while it was ice cold.

This was a major mistake.

The Slayer expected to be intrigued, even beguiled, by the flavor maple syrup would impart upon this heavy ale. Alas, by drinking it cold he could barely detect any of the hardwood nectar with his delicate brew-palate. In fact, the burnt coffee-like flavor of this brew was reminiscent of chewing on coffee grounds.

The Slayer, after hearing the glowing accolades given this beer, was very disappointed with his first bottle. However, he did not give up. Even though he does not put much stock in what others say about a particular beer (he's a firm believer in the adage, "Tasting is believing"), The Slayer knew that he was not tasting all the pleasures this beer had to offer. Pet's Wicked Maple Porter was somehow hiding its true attributes like a buxom woman in a bulky sweatshirt.

Leaning back in his stool, mildly chagrined, The Slayer took a moment to ponder how he could coax the true flavor from this brew. Still a bit bewildered, he reached for his glass to take another sip. When his beer-grasping palm touched the vessel and felt its chill, he suddenly realized that this beer needed to be warmer for its flavors to blossom.

At this moment, The Slayer asked the bartender to remove one bottle of the Pet's Wicked Maple Porter from the cooler and warm it for him. She placed the bottle on the counter in front of him. The Slayer, knowing that this would not suffice, said, "No, I need this bottle to be warmed. Putting it on the counter will not take the chill off this beer in time for me to enjoy it."

The brewmaiden, with a look of confusion, replied, "What would you like me to do with it then? Hold it against my bosom?"

"Yes," replied The Slayer, with all the seriousness of a judge at a DWI hearing.

Always aiming to please, she summarily took the bottle rapped it in a swaddling towel and held it to her chest in an effort to appease The Slayer. For several moments, she rolled the bottle back and forth across her bust while rubbing it feverishly in an attempt to warm it. Finally, The Slayer said, "I think that's enough."

"Hold on," she retorted, "I think I can warm it even more if I hold it over the coffee pot." She then proceeded to place the bottle on top of the pot for several minutes. When she extracted the bottle from this steam bath and placed it before The Slayer it still was slightly cold but warm enough to enjoy.

"This will do," he said, as he nodded in knowing anticipation of the beer's full flavor. The Slayer poured the beer into the glass then brought it ever so carefully to his beer-tuned proboscis. Taking a long lingering whiff, he smiled as the scent of maple made its way languidly up his nose. "This will definitely do," he repeated, while a smile of satisfaction spread across his face.

Slowly, The Slayer brought the glass to his lips and allowed the nectar to flow freely over his waiting palate. While still present, the burnt flavor was almost usurped by the now malty richness of the brew. As the beer made its way toward the back of his tongue, The Slayer began to taste the sweet, yet not overstated, flavor of the maple syrup. New Hampshire's favorite sap (in non-presidential primary years) not only gave the brew a bit of sweetness, it also gave this beer a nutty quality usually found in porters that speak the Queen's English.

The Slayer was definitely pleased as he deposited the first sip into his stomach, "the holding tank." Not only had The Slayer successfully tracked down Pet's Wicked Maple Porter, but he had also figured out how to prepare it for ultimate consumption. Ne'er again will he allow this beer to pass the malty gates of his lips cold. The Slayer has experienced its tepid delights; to go back would be like closing heaven's gates in search of a better neighborhood.