Black, like his noir soul

The Traveler knew that there was a need for such a libation. Speakeasy's Payback Smoked Porter. Black, burnt and bitter, just like the souls of the women he had scorned so many times in his youth. It had to be. He wasn't quite sure why he knew, but he did. Such a drink was supposed to happen. It was written in the stars, so with resignation he withdrew the bottle from the depths of the refrigerator and set it down on his desk. It stared back at him, glance askance, menace in its soul. Payback time.

Approaching the vessel with trepidation, he ripped off the cap, wincing in fear of what the repercussions might be for his actions. The sound of gas escaping from the bottle mirrored his gasp of shock.

When he poured the dark, angry liquid into a glass he was stunned at the thick, luscious, creamy head that billowed from the depths. Craggy, with big bubbles and even bigger promise, it teased him as it beckoned. "Drink me," it moaned. "Drink me and all your troubles will be erased."

As he lifted the snifter to his trembling, dry, cracked lips, his nose was assaulted by the acrid scent of burnt coffee and the warm, welcoming smell of the bitter chocolates his long lost love had been so fond of. It reminded him of the inevitably burnt wheat toast that she would serve him when she wanted to break from tradition and do breakfast in bed the morning after.

The cool, dark liquid poured over his tongue in a wave of thick, dark flavor, shocking his senses back from reverie. Coffee again. This time with maybe a touch of cream. The campfires of his youth, back when Boy Scouts was about learning to be men instead of a popularity contest.  Burnt malts and sugar. Things that remind one of youth as well as later years. This kind of beer might scare off new members of the beer cult. Not something to be trifled with, it challenged his every preconception of what a smoked porter should be.

As he drained the glass of its last dregs he reminisced on what he had just experienced and lamented the passing of such a wonderful liquid. Had he to do it all over again, he might perhaps take a little more time to get to know it on a whole other level. Perhaps spend a few more minutes plumbing the depths of everything it had to offer. But tonight it was not to be. First impressions are the most important in this sad, angry world we live in, and this first impression was one that would stick with him for a long, long time.