Hellbrew

The only virtue of tequila, so far as I know, is cheapness. It has no flavour. It stupefies more quickly and more cheaply than any hellbrew I have yet encountered.

No one has spoken, and indeed written, more fiercely than I against the farmers who bedew their fields with ingenious hellbrews, neither knowing nor caring whether goldfinches will suffer from the shortage of thistles or foxes gorge themselves on unwholesome wood pigeons.

While she was heating and churning the hellbrew in a double boiler, her sight began to fade.

“Maybe the stockyards are in Kansas City,” I jabbered, I hardly know why even now. Maybe to imply that the words that had passed since my interjections about Mrs. Clicko’s husband had not actually been spoken, and we had not been catapulted into this little hellbrew, but were still on safe ground, chatting of this and that.

DRAGON Spirit – the very name conjures up a cheap Chinese hellbrew, the kind of electric soup which is bought with multiples of “the price of a cup of tea”.

Next, as we breasted a short, steep rise, an area the size of a small football pitch was revealed on the left of the road containing about fifty ponies and traps with attendant ponymen. The ponymen communicated to each other in a savage, barking tongue that defies translation or transcription. The most significant sensory input was olfactory, an unbelievable stench pervaded the environs, it bore only a remote hint of what might be safely classified as horseshit. The rest was a hellbrew, sinkpit, gasping, gagging, ancient dung history of rot and wet and corruption and decay.

North American Rattlesnake brings a potent hellbrew of venom to the party.

I smack my lips, elixir rolling in my belly like molten gold. I ditch the empty bottle. Stretch my hungry muscles, pop my neck, crack! I feel … odd, as if my skin don’t fit proper. That shiny pink hellbrew is playing merry bugfuck with me, my friends, and I won’t stand for it.