DARK MEAT ALERT: @hillfarmstead Civil Disobedience 12, CHARLIE MURPHY SAISON EXPLOITS

Clipping right along in the realm of being disobedient and uncivil, we get the notorious “dark saison 4th release” entry in the canon: Civil Disobedience 12. Every fourth bottle in this series is an iteration of a dark saison/wild ale and usually leads to polarizing reviews as the average bourbon county coveter two years fresh out of undergrad has no business fucking with black Saisons. Maybe no one does.

Let’s get a taste of that black tar in today’s review.

DDB is down with brown town

DDB is down with brown town

Hill Farmstead, Vermont (oh no way)
Black blended barrel aged saison aka that BBBaS, 8.1%abv, I made all this up. No one reads this.

Hold on to your uncircumsized cocks for the spoiler alert of the year: this saison is dark. It pours with perfect carb, bubbling upward with silky mocha frap crema, looking more like a bottle of Everett at first glance. It has minimal cling and sheets in a slick watery way, running that dark dress upwards indicating the acidic experience contained therein.

Post full size because Trady complained about small pics/penis

Post full size because Trady complained about small pics/penis

The nose is the collision of two odd worlds destroying themselves in a fruit meets chocolate singularity. The blackest of holes. You get a sort of tangerine and clementine with red wine oak at the outset but wait for the beat to drop, 160bpm waves of cocoa and nestle quik Rush in quickly behind with this discordant cacophony of conflicting olfactory zones. Some people love this type of shit: the Pipeworks Orange abduction, HF daybreak and to a lesser extent BCBS bramble fall in this mixed bag of dark malty hatred. I can’t get on board with it and my prejudices against these types of beers are well documented so take my impressions with a chocolate fondue slice of navel orange.

The taste carries more of a vinous character and pushes chocolate milk meets Bordeaux, creamy acidity itself feeling like an inherent contradiction throughout. Again, some people open up incognito tabs and grind that coffee bean to these types of beers and I don’t understand that deviant behavior. I don’t like tart of darkness and the vast majority of dark wilds or black saisons. If you like this space docking of malty chocolate foreskin rolling over acidic fruit, then by all means.

I just hope this big dark girth is enough to Trady standards

I just hope this big dark girth is enough to Trady standards

If you loved Edith, you will think this is dope as fuck. It is well attenuated and for a highly-attenuated audience. Oh shit peep that parallel structuring. While I loved Cd4, and was fairly jazzed about cd8, this falls closer to the realm of Jim/Jimmy in HF offerings I wouldn’t actively seek out.

Like all things, HF had the misfortune of inherently being compared to their own body of work so it feels like being the Pitchfork Media asshole who criticizes Mars Volta for doing something polarizing and experimental. It is unquestionably well made but feels like those spacey malty tracks that go on forever and it loses me.

Drink dark saisons, acquire new powers

Drink dark saisons, acquire new powers

What should you drink instead of this? If you are dead set on this style, you could go with Edith, the Nightmare on Brett series, Guillermo Prunus/etc, one of the oddball Sara dark saison offerings like farmhouse noire, or something in that same realm.

Like Phish, the people who love this ridiculous shit will love it so hard that no one else will need to deal with it. And that is fine, have your chocolate covered grapes and 9 minute guitar solos, leave me out of it.

boosting on them dark malts, dropped E tanks

boosting on them dark malts, dropped E tanks


@alchemistbeer Focal Banger: Better than Heady. I know this will rustle people with Certified BJ palates.

Whoa, whoa, let’s put the pitchforks down and extinguish those torches. BOTH BEERS ARE WORLD CLASS. Focal Banger just goes hard and crushes it out of the park in a totally different and admittedly superior manner almost across the board. Let’s start oiling those cones and get back to them entry level hoppy palate roots in today’s roots.

Gemini, Focal's Majesty

Gemini, Focal’s Majesty

Focal Banger
The Alchemist
Vermont, United States
Style | ABV
American IPA | 7.00% ABV



A: This has that same turbid, milky, Sunny D meets Tampico sort of radiance that the Cicerone schools gnash their teeth over: SUCH A LACK OF CLARITY. This was to be expected, as the farmhouse game is pervasive and not everyone subscribes to the crystal clear SRM of generations past. That’s chill. The carb is ample but doesn’t get in the way with excessive head or entendres connected thereto. It reminds me of how HF Double Galaxy Looks, except this shit only gots one galaxy, NEED TO UP THAT GALAXY COUNT SON.

S: This is an earth shattering limit break of olfactory delights, I am left mashing X to execute an ever expanding combo. There is of course the Citra aspects of tangerine and grapefruit zest, sure like you didn’t expect that, but HOLD UP, there is also a sort of Honeydew and a crisp watery melon profile that starts chopping up alpha rails real quick on a jewel case. This is overwhelming in scope and capacity but also adds depth to the old Bells’ hop overload formula. Balanced and excessive concurrently, a work of staggering brilliance.

You don't always need to be massive to put in work. Str8 swole. Mad hoppy striations

You don’t always need to be massive to put in work. Str8 swole. Mad hoppy striations

T: The taste is intensely bright and nimble in a way that heady feels yeasty and sluggish by contrast. If Horny Tubbler is the Tank, this is a nimble rogue casting hoppy DPS all over the place. There is lemon cirtus, peach, apricot, a watery panache that buttresses and fires shots like Ocelot Revolver right into your bittering zones on the swallow. The intense citrus closes a touch minty and herbal with a bittering juniper mixing with the pithy juiciness. I can’t eke out punchlines when beers are this phenomenal, DDB just turns into one of those basic ticker 50 hits a day fan service pages. IT IS NOT MY FAULT.

M: This is more thin and malleable than Heady by a long shot and feels dynamic as a result, closer to Pupil or Nelson really, and those are exceptional ranks to shoulder. It sallies delicately from zone to zone on your palate and cascades crisp like an Anjou pear upon the swallow, like Deadpool backflipping and laying a trail of explosive citrus clusterbombs. UR MOUTH JUST GOT DOMED UP BY DEADPOOL.

pictured above: basic tickers become cicerones overnight after discovering hops

pictured above: basic tickers become cicerones overnight after discovering hops

D: When asked how Michaelangelo created David, he replied “I looked at the marble and removed material until only David remained.” This does the same thing, except it strips down all the extraneous flabby water profiles, the excessive yeasty profiles, the overload od dry hopping, the needless crystal malt, excised honey and all the other bullshit and stripped this down like a roll-caged MR2 ready for the track. It is phenomenal without qualification and you are doing yourself a great disservice by skipping this one, even if it means dealing with rapacious Vermont traders who want Chez $4$ with cans of this, or whateverthefuck.

Narrative: Alfred Hopsdam clutched the radiant emerald amulet with trepidation as the train approached the platform, wisps of steam filling the air with wafts from the local orchards in the swing of harvest season. “Waterb…Waterburry…” Alfred stammered as he presented his entry forms to the elite Alpha Work Academy. The conductor glanced hurriedly at his pocketwatch and nodded, motioning for Alfred to pick up his forest green equipage and enter the cabin. The air inside of the Academy tram reeked of dabber oils, Jamba Juice smoothies, and herbal apertifs being decadently enjoyed by the senior members of the Hop Warriors Guild. One corpulent ranking official dropped his substantial mass onto the bench beside Alfred, “NAMES HOPSLAM, January class, BEEN AROUND HERE FOREVER, sayyyyy, you lookin a lil too thin to ride with us, you sure you on the right train bud? HAR HAR HAR!” His foul honey laden breath belied his true nature, sticky and coniferous. Alfred shook his head and gripped the amulet tightly and felt the clicking of the wheels onto adjoining rails as he watched the apricot trees buzz by with increasing celerity, he thought “they will see soon enough, I will show them all.”

PROTIP: Not everything needs to be barrel aged for you to give a fuck.

PROTIP: Not everything needs to be barrel aged for you to give a fuck.


I DONT HAVE READING COMPREHENSION SKILLS, but I do have opinions about Heady Topper



After a super difficult decision, the Cannery at Alchemist will no longer be selling Heady Topper at the cannery. Like if you show up, NO HEADY TOPPER. In what many are calling a bold gambit for the beer world, this ambitious brewery is taking their product and selling it to an intermediary (tentatively called a “STORE OWNER” for the time being, details developing.) Now from what eye witness accounts are reporting from standing outside the cannery, apparently the store keeper then has plans to RESELL the Heady Topper. The Alchemist is attempting to latch some Dead Hand control by suggesting a Retail Price, but what this likely means is the end of Heady Topper as we all know it.

Now I know the article claims “The good news is this will not affect our production levels” but what does that really mean? I know that when I was fired from the Nescafe production facility for masturbating in the breakroom, PRODUCTION NEVER WENT DOWN I JUST LOST MY JOB. Now Heady Topper appears to be completely gone. Who knows what these alleged “STORES” will be even doing with the cans? Are we given any assurances that the cans will even actually not be beer? I didn’t think so.

Pictured above: the public reels from Alchemist's incredibly selfish decision to not allow the public to trapse around their facility pell mell

Pictured above: the public reels from Alchemist’s incredibly selfish decision to not allow the public to trapse around their facility pell mell

It is a sad day in the beer world, to be sure. I had a series of pre-pre trades set up for brewery only releases for my ultra rare DIPA, now how does that sound, Veritas 12 for a STORE ONLY release? Vermont has essentially sank to Illinois levels of audacity. If anyone wants to do a store only for store only trade, looking to land some BCBS Coconut also, but that’s another post.

I think we can all agree that shutting down their industrial production facility is short sighted and a slight to the public. As a beer drinker, I am entitled to come and rummage through canning lines, nod pensively while hearing about brite tanks, and transpose dipshit homebrew questions to men working 14 hour days stirring wort. That’s my right. Now they just unilaterally take that away from the beer world, its like: WHAT ARE YOU EVEN HIDING ALCHEMIST? Suddenly a closed door policy, just like when I worked at the Nescafe facility. Beginning of the end, for sure. WHERE ARE WE EVEN SUPPOSED TO SELF GUIDED TOUR? Outside? Thanks for the HOPSpitality, amirite?

Pictured above: children of divorce due to Alchemist closure

Pictured above: children of divorce due to Alchemist closure

When reached for comment, marketing representative from Alchemist Brewing noted, “it is clear that people in Vermont have exceeding difficulties with reading comprehension. We will be offering weekend courses to instruct grown men with adult literacy, which apparently remains a challenge within the ambit of our fanbase. The classes will not be conducted in the brewpub.”

One onlooker, Walter Jeffries, called the Alchemist’s statement “a false concession, completely igneous and riparian,” and shook his head upon pretending to read it.

More details as they develop.


@hillfarmstead Double Barrel Damon, Putting Damons on my Damons Even My Damons Got Damons so you can Damon while you Damon

What do you get when you take regular ass world class DAMON and then pump up the jams with a SECOND FUCKING BARREL. Tickers lose their shit, that’s what.

Alright, so 50 people got these in the collected works and then….no one reviewed it. Alright a few people did, but it was conspicuously absent from review sites until the big release went down 6 weeks ago, resulting in pages upon pages of fanfare, butthurt, conspiracies, and other things attendant with beer releases these days. When the dust settled, we were left with a 189 (?) bottle, $35 release. The DoWant pulsing hard in them lower abs.

I think it is safe to say that this beer was the most sought out and anticipated beer release in the past year from Hill Farmstead, but how does it stack up to the already-stellar Damon? You can’t get more than one rock hard boner, there’s like, no such thing as a double boner. Right? Anyway, let’s get up in the guts and see if all the crestfallen tickers listening to Evanescence have reason to mourn their inability to tick this elusive beast.

Black hat, black shades, double barrel black stouts, oh behave.

Black hat, black shades, double barrel black stouts, oh behave.

Hill Farmstead Brewery
Vermont, United States
Russian Imperial Stout | ABV ?

A: This sits and languishes out of the bottle like cajoling a second grader to get ready for school. There is a certain tempestuousness to the light crackle of mocha foam that quickly subsides and sits down to eat its cocoa puffs, unconcerned with learning cursive or long division. The lacing is insubstantial likely due to the generous sheeting on the glass that lets you know that this beer did hard time in the barrel SHU, carving wood shivs, plotting revenge. I will say, I miss the coats and coats of wax like on the previous version of Damon, but if you lay this down without trying it, you probably don’t deserve this beer in the first place. The picture above might not make sense since most of the one other time I have seen a picture of this beer it has been a 50ml medical dosage, the legit pour evidences the sheer power and menacing stature that this bete noir imparts indefatigably.

There are two very pronounced aspects to this beer, I wont blame you if you can only focus on one.

There are two very pronounced aspects to this beer, I wont blame you if you can only focus on one.

S: This is easily the most complicated olfactory profile that HF has produced this side of MC2. I will attempt to pull apart these strata of eros, this is a complicated moshpit of aromas and chocolatey decadence. The first thing that stands out is a deep red wine tannic profile like an oaky merlot that is buttressed by that expensive ass 82% cacao at the register at Whole Foods. You get a light char but the affair leans more to the sweeter side of things, like a halfway house in between MC1 and MC2, more decadent than the former but not as substantial as the latter. The bourbon seems to be the relief pitcher not the closer, providing a fleeting vanilla aspect. The port seems unquestionably the dominant force in this Romulus Remus cagematch, which is great considering the premium placed on landing this over Bourbon Damon.

T: The olfactory was hard enough to convey and the cascading tastes elbowdrop off the high ropes like Summer Slam. At the outset is a red grape dryness cum de tannic tartness, but the chocolatey Pinkerton gang starts cracking heads shortly, only to be whisked away by a very light bourbon/coconut/oakiness. If you have ever listened to The Locusts and been blown away with a swift 30 second barrage of tastes, you will understand how difficult this is to convey accurately. The wine/port aspects again seem to dominate the roasty/chocolatey/bourbon aspects, but it’s more of a 70/30 co-dominance with oakiness being the underpinnings to the undulating flavors. You can’t really be doing shit else if you want to capture all the aspects of this beer because if you have this too cold or while watching Duck Dynasty, you might zone out and miss the delicate profiles that you shelled out so much to try. It’s like renting a $3,000 escort when you have the flu, save it for when you can reach full completion.

Follow your dreams: if you want a DBD, don't give up.  Keep offerings that same bottle of Huna.  Just takes the right set of eyes, dream big, never hurts to ask rite

Follow your dreams: if you want a DBD, don’t give up. Keep offerings that same bottle of Huna. Just takes the right set of eyes, dream big, never hurts to ask rite

M: This is lighter than Damon and the dryness from the oak character seems to underscore this trait. This is no underattenuated/brownie batter fest, the beer has been massaged into post-menopausal refinement with that port dryness along the gumline and the bourbon wafts tossing up barricades along the bittering zones. Personally, I felt that the competition between the two elements was dissonant almost and preferred the straightforward Bourbon Damon execution in this regard, but I have a short attention span and hate nice things. I eat Kid Cuisines and subscribe to Esquire magazine.

D: Given the foregoing complexity, you take drinks faster and try to dial in what is going on but it takes a solid 5oz just to figure out what goes where. Also, this beer completely changes over the course of 10 degrees so if you like that bourbon roastiness at 55 degrees, wait until you hit low 60s and that port starts stretching its lazy Portugese legs all over your Z Gallerie couch, gurgling out that sonorous language of tannins and Cabernet exploits. It is a shame that this is offered in a small format as it really evolves in temps and in between drinks, something that may be lost on the traditional 32 person .5 oz ballers so common in modern parlance. This is a drastically different beer than Bourbon Damon, more refined, it subscribes to Dupont Registry and Cigar Afficionado and has little in common with brash Derk Lerd plebians. To some, that will be offputting. If you like an adjunct fuck fest with chiles and vanilla beans and scorching bourbon character, don’t worry: Goose Island drops their new shit this month.

Open this at a bottle share, tickers be rolling to your table like "wantapourofthisNewGlarussssss"

Open this at a bottle share, tickers be rolling to your table like “wantapourofthisNewGlarussssss”

Narrative: It was a duplicitous life that Damonick led. By day he was Dom, a prim and proper horticulturist advising local agrarians on a litany of nuanced subjects: soil temp, nitrate fixation, turgor pressure. By night he was Nick, a decadent MDMA using throat in a local post hardcore band. He lived a relentless life and almost never slept. It was this duality that allowed him to live twice the lives that normal people would embrace. One Tuesday night Nuck skulled several bottles of Scarecrow Cab and woke up at 6am with burgundy red teeth and a searing headache, much to Dom’s chagrin. It was a rough, complicated life full of multifaceted fulfillment. Some would counsel Damonick and plead with him to give up the rough hewn night life full of debauchery and bacchanalian exploits, but to do so would be to debase Damonick into a simpler entity. It was the complexity and robust lifestyle that Damonick sought most heartily, that was one thing he couldn’t expect a one-dimensional personality to apprehend.


Hill Farmstead Ann, …………………Her.


This is the infamous wine barrel aged saison that I have received no fewer than 4058230985 requests to review. As the grand opening to the saison marathon, I will finally review not only the highest rated saison in the world, but also one of the best beers that I have ever had in my entire beer drinking life. For the uninitiated, this has been heralded as a revelation for the saison style and is an exemplary demonstration of the raw talent seeping out of Hill Farmstead like open prodigious sores. This was a 180 bottle, 1 per person release and if that alone was not enough, shockingly, no one wanted to trade a beer that is damn near perfect. No amount of Daisy Cutter would make it happen. Let’s approach perfection in today’s inherently flawed review.

Let’s get these jokes out of the way: mayonegg, way to place Ann, her? bland, egg, ann hog, is she funny or something? etc.

Hill Farmstead Brewery
Vermont, United States
Saison / Farmhouse Ale | 6.50% ABV

A: This is almost dead on to the style and presents a milky yellow discountenance with incredibly fine microbubbles that present a huge amount of cling. The carbo looks like tiny beds of golden Roe and lace the glass for almost an instant before crackling away. Ann is turbid and has a sort of watery golden hay look to the body with eggshell white bubbles. The bottle gushed a bit upon opening, but that happened with Norma as well and she was damn near perfect as well so, hard to really fault it on that front. A very beautiful beer, and while not at radiant as say, Ithaca Brute, it has this dirty radioactive property to it, just how you like your women.

Respect Ann.

S: This is incredibly complex and I took my time to let this open up to its full bouquet. If you drink this cold, you are 1) an asshole and 2) doing the saison world a disseervice. I would heartily recommend that you let this breathe up to the low 60’s, and it will offer up a deep upside down Spoderman kiss of honey, lightly lactic lemon zest, a faint wheat profile, a gentle amount of funk like sorting through old Marvel trading cards, and finally closes with a fantastic white grape element. At the outset, this beer strays dangerously far from the typical non-BA saison genre, but is better for it. If the outstretched hand from saison to AWA makes you uncomfortable, go drink a Sanctification and think about what could have been, ain’t no one asking you to the Beer Sadie Hawkins Dance anyway.

T: This is lightly tart at the outset with ripe canteloupe and lemon notes that leave a bit of a drying aspect, this gives way to the malt profile which is creamy and reminds me of a fresh grands biscuits, albeit with honey and light pear up in the mix, if that wasn’t enough, the final sharp chardonnay aspect comes in and starts power sanding down the bitter zones with a sand blaster. The crisp finish makes your palate all pissed and wanting another hit of that sweet saison methadone.

After Ann, whenever someone tries to offer me any other beer, I be like-

M: This imparts a huge white grape and pear skin note that is a bit creamy and brackish almost at the same time, which might be confusing for those who don’t have their sea legs in saison/american wild ale territory, notwithstanding, it is beyond excellent in this respect. The mouthfeel has a milky froth that immediately subsides into a drying chardonnay aspect. Like so many gilded age politicians, it gives and takes away with the same hand and your native american tastebuds are left reeling in its wake: discontent and wanting more.

D: This beer effectively will ruin not only the saison genre at large for you due to its complexity, but it will also in a lesser way ruin beer in general for you. It is kinda like how hooking up with 16 year olds is illegal because it makes hooking up too easy and denatures the value of making out in general. Landing this beer is so hard because it is a cautionary tale as to how drinkable and good beer can be at its apex. This doesn’t present a decadent profile like some complex gueuze or imperial stouts, but it imparts a staggering amount of drinkability and just outright uplifting citrus notes. The abv is not only perfectly masked, it comes across as though this beer is actually somehow good for you. The panacea effect is substantial with a beer that is this approachable. You could give this to a teething infant and it would recognize it as a potent elixir, HP/MP fully restored like staying at an inn. I cannot say enough good things about this beer. It is unquestionably the best saison that I have ever had and amongst the beers that I have ever had.

This is how people usually look when they find out that you drank Ann without them.

Narrative: Ann Portinari has served as a seraphim figure for brewers and beer traders in general. Those tedious days of spraying out tanks and cleaning up spent grain were a silent appeal to power. There is a divine undercurrent to manipulating the properties of life, casting away life sustaining wheat to generate even simpler cultures, using them for an ontological purpose. It is in this fashion that each batch is a silent prayer to Ann, an appeal to immortality in a manner that only Herbert Spencer can truly identify. So much beer has been cast through livers and into drains in flailing attempts at benediction or salvation. Ann drapes her wings lovingly over those drunk assholes on a nightly basis, fumbling through their phones to text ex-girlfriends, she is life giver and destroyer. Some would opine that in malt liquors her presence is not felt. Why when Molson needed her most were there only one set of footprints in the mash? It was during those times that the sweet muse carried them. Ann was an overseer of more than beverages, for in alcoholic drinks, man seeks to abrogate reason and become a god by mashing out on 2 full samplers at Denny’s. No dick pic has been sent without her careful intervention and oversight. In brewing parlance, when one has sparged and sparged in endless toil, she lifts one up to beatific perfection, making all other endeavors seems trivial by contrast. In this respect she is both instructive and destructive, sure that cab is $42, but what are you going to do? Leave your car here and then pick it up before streetsweeping at 7 am? Fuck that, Ann has wrapped her golden shroud around you, do sick burnouts and show the world your value.


Luscious, Russian Imperial Stout, The Alchemist, Vermont Gets Twisted Like a Bag of Ropes

As Tender As A Tennyson Novel, But DARKER THAN DEMI MOORE'S RAGE

Vermont has been killing it lately. It seems like I can’t go anywhere without hearing about that damn state and its environmental citizens. Protip: Dont move there, just enjoy their beer.

This is the OTHER beer, that was saved from the flood that destroyed the brewery last month. This is the OTHER 700 bottle release that was saved. Unlike the Heretic, this beer is amazing, not a soggy sack of Honduran yard clippings.

A: This beer has a slick deep angry pallor that pours BP thick. Deep black inkiness with mahogany coating on the glass. The head looks amazing with dark cocoa bubbles like frothed chocolate milk. The Quik rabbit was not fucking around when he whipped up with batch, the kids are on one. I mean, just scroll up, there it is, what more can I say, it is an evil libation, fit for despots and overlords alike.

S: This is out of this world complex and amazing. I love the cocoa and chocolate notes up front, supported by some nicely acidic coffee at the back. The waft of subtle vanilla and toffee alcohol makes this all too inviting. It is dark but alcoholic at the same time, like Seal when he isn’t busy copping kisses from roses.

T: It packs all of the foregoing into a multilevel experience that I have to delve into like strata. The sweetness is swift and supported by a great coffee acidic dryness. The sweetness returns in an alcoholic waft that is like if chocolate rain, parabola, and GI Rare had a love child. It has the sweetness from one, the nice coffee notes from the other, and a prickly warmth from the latter. Alcoholic, dark, and brooding, this beer is like Michael Lohan’s parenting skills, only this didnt end up a complete disaster.

M: Great coating without being overly expansive. The taste just lingers and you can truly sip on this judiciously. It gets even better when it warms up, just outrageous top to bottom. I just want to get my mouth all on it. INCOMING SEXIST STATEMENT: both sexes will equally enjoy this statement. I mean that in a genial sense that it has universal appeal beyond the ambit of what is usually deemed an off-putting style. Not just for lumberjacks and beef jerk connoisseurs, this beer is approachable. You know what I mean, I dont want to come off all like I am up in this club:

D: This is an incredible beer. Of course, it has to be one of the only 700 bottles saved from that jerk Irene. Thank god I obtained 2 bottles, this is something that I will savor later on in life, like when I pass the postal exam or break 200 in a game of bowling, you know. Life Monuments. Problem is, I want more of this and my desire remains unslagged. Right when I finish this beer, it feels like this:

Narrative: Raven Simone cast her leather satchel upon the smooth teak floor and fell languidly into her baroque throne. “Another day within this miserable sphere of tween affairs,” she ruminated to herself as her necromage servant poured her a tepid snifter of what appeared to be the life force of a 9 year old child. “How long Levinicus? How long must I endure this curse? The cumulus nimbus clouds of misfortune forever obscuring my greatness with Nick! and ABC Family side projects,” she sipped deeply, “never to come to true recognition?” She looked into her cloudy gazing orb as it recalled flashes from her tawdry past. Raven knew the gravity of the deal that she signed with the Lord of Darkness to obtain the contract for Hangin’ With Mr. Cooper. It stayed with her like a deep oily wound. The terms of her Faustian agreement bound her to tween programming indefinitely, sweet but deeply dark. To buy further time from the underlords, she was the Commander of that dark cadre Cheetah Girls, wholly misunderstanding that she would not be transmutated into a cheetah woman at all. “RAVEN! MAKE UP! TIME FOR THE FOOD FIGHT SCENE!” her dark lord beckoned, a call to fulfill the bilateral contract of evil. She exhaled deeply, swirled her glass and began preparing for the malevolent groin shots that would ensue.