Horror Clowns are dickheads

“You can really taste the hops,” said Taras. He held up his glass. “Our new IPA.” 

Misha sniffed the beer with a deep snort. “Ah, such a smell.  These are English hops, fuggles.”  He took a sip. “Strong, five percent?” 

“Five point two,” Taras agreed/corrected. 

“We could sell this to the US market.  This could be the making of us Taras, we could become the next Budweiser. That’s if the Russian’s don’t invade.” 

Taras and Misha laughed.  The Russian troops were on the border. The imminent invasion was all around us.  I didn’t see the joke. 

Even as he spoke, we heard the blast of an explosion. 

“To living for the minute,” Misha said, raising his glass. 

Would this be our last toast, I wondered.

“To living for the minute,” we said as one. 

We turned on the radio for confirmation of what we already knew. The Russian invasion had begun. 

“It will be sad to leave this,” I said. 

“Leave what?” said Taras 

“This.” I gestured around. Our home. The brewery. Everything we have built up. Oh god, the struggle of a small business, a niche craft brewer in a fledgling capitalist state.  We had built up our business from nothing, just the three of us, a craft brewery, Drink to Freedom, and now... And now... 

“We don’t flee,” Taras said. I remember that determination, it was what first attracted me to him. “We are western nation now, Nadezhda,” he had said. “We make business, we make beer, we make money.” 

“We fight them Nadezhda,” he said now. “We fight on the streets, we fight for a new Ukraine, free from Russia. We fight to leave the imperial Russian culture behind us." 

“Very nice,” I said. It would be a bit more convincing if you made your plea for our culture in Ukrainian, not Russian. 

"Russian is my first language, it is true, Nadezhda, like so many of us, it is imperial baggage, I will speak in Ukrainian from now on.” 

“And me,” said Misha. This is my last word in the Russian tongue.” So saying he changed mid-sentence from Russian to Ukrainian, and from that date on I never heard either of them speak a Russian word again. 

“So, we speak Ukranian now,” I said. “But it doesn’t make us fighters. The Russian army is coming. It is not safe in Lviv.” 

“We need to defend our city and our country,” said Taras.  “The Ukranian army is nothing, they don’t have the manpower or weapons to match the Russians, we need to join the territorial defence.” 

“The Territorial defence! They have even less weapons.” 

“But they have us now,” said Misha. 

“We’re craft brewers,” I said. “How can three craft brewers help defeat the mighty Russian army.”  

“We have bottles, we have alcohol, this is all you need for Molotov cocktails. We have vats and bottling machines. The residence need us Nadezhda. We are their arms manufacturer now.” 

“I will speak to Viktor”, said Misha. “He is with the police. He will know how to make Molotov cocktails.” 

“Do police offer training on making bombs?” I said. 

“What now, when we are at war, yes of course,” said Taras. Taras somehow instinctively knew the rules for situations that had never previously existed.  

The first task was the alcohol, our beers are strong, but not strong enough for a lighter fuel, but as Taras said, we were chemists, creators of alcoholic liquids. We need to up the strength, 90 per cent alcohol. 

“We can do 90 per cent”, said Misha, “though there won’t be much flavour. And no hops.” 

“We will give them flavour, said Taras.  “Set these alight and throw them at a Russian tank and they will have flavour.” 

Misha and Taras went straight to work on the alcohol recipe. 

“Does it need to be perfect?” I said. “It’s just flammable liquid.” 

“It needs to be replicable.” Said Misha 

“It needs to be suitable for mass production”, corrected/agreedTaras.

“It needs to smell right,” said Misha. 

“Smell I said?” 

“Think of our soldiers,” said Taras, defending his friend as ever. “Fighting the might Russian army with nothing but a bottle and a rag.  The cocktail has to smell like a weapon, it has to look like a weapon, it has to empower our troops.” 

“Maybe garlic?” Said Misha 

Taras nodded. “Yes, but never tell. It must be our secret weapon.” 

That night, Taras was hunched over the computer, playing with a graphics package?  “What are you doing on the computer, Taras,” I said. “You’ve been on there all night.” 

“Designing the labels,” he said.

“Labels?” I said. "Labels for what?” 

“For the bottles.” 

“But they’re Molotov cocktail bottles. Why would we brand Molotov cocktails.” 

“Branding is everything Nadezhda, even in war. Especially during war. We want the Russian scum to know that they’re at war with everyone, the brewer, the butcher, they have entered a field of total warfare, nowhere is safe for them.” 

I looked over his shoulder at the screen. The image depicted a naked Vladimir Putin, sitting on a chair surrounded by tanks, bombs and vehicles, all covered in blood. The wording at the top of the image read: ‘Huilo’ Putin, or 'Putin is a dickhead'.  The other image showed a picture of Russian troops with clown heads, surrounded by bloodied corpses of children and the elderly, the title ‘Horror clowns’. 

Taras explained. "Children will die on the streets and in houses because they’re shooting wildly, like untrained horror clowns. This is how we fight back, we throw our cocktails at their soldiers, we use them against their tanks.” 

Viktor was our link-man to the territorial defence force. He organised his volunteers to collect bottles and bring them to our ‘factory’, and he organised the collection and distribution of the completed cocktails. 

“Keep out of the front line, he told us.  “Your cocktails are too important.  Sure, we can make them, ad hoc, but 2,000 bottles a day? You are like an arms factory.  Make more of the Putin’s a Dickhead bottles, he added. The troops prefer them. The horror clowns not so much.” 

“The contents are all the same,” I said. 

“Branding is everything”, said Misha.   

“Messaging is everything”, Taras said, in agreement/disagreement with his friend. 

The invasion was resisted. The Russian troops had been told they would just walk into Lviv, and then Kyiv, that we would all flee, put up no resistance. They had a shock.  In spite of the reckless bombing of civilians, the superior equipment, the trained troops, and every other advantage, the Russians lost more lives than we did. They had not been prepared for resistance, they had not expected Tactical Nuclear Cocktails.  

As we were based at an outskirts of town enterprise park, our production unit was never targeted by the planes, they were looking for belching black-smoke factories, not pop-up start-up brewers. The total war Putin promised was never delivered, just a horror clown farce of inept evil. Outside was a bombardment of every concievable horror, but we didn’t venture out, we had work to do. Taras and I worked 12 hour days at the factory, Misha was mostly on the move, tracking suppliers, getting shipments to Viktor’s volunteers, and cadging money, from the police, the military, the government, the volunteers, he even raided the charity box of an abandoned store – a Paddington Bear refugee charity money box.   

"How did you get the money out?" I asked. 

"I smashed Paddington’s head open," he explained. "What? he said in response to my glare, "It is war."  

We survived. One day. Two days. The Russians were repelled. But only so far. The bombs went quiet, but the cocktails were still needed.  Taras worked on a new set of labels, to mark the new stage of the war. Tactical Nuclear Cocktails, Dead Evil and Tank Punk.  

A year passed. We celebrated. We celebrated with beer, Forty barrels, left over from before the war (alcohol sales had been banned from day one). Viktor took 39 barrels “to a good home.” The last barrel was ours. We raised our glasses. 

“This smells dark,” said Misha. 

“It is a Struggle for Freedom stout,” said Taras. 

“I’ll drink to that,” Misha said. 

We drank to that. 

Misha disappeared at some point, he probably had someone to meet. He always had someone to meet, it was that sort of war. Taras and I collapsed drunkenly onto the bed. We’d not felt like this for a year, an alcoholic haze came over us, but, also, something that over-rode the haze. The first time in a year. The first time in a bloody year. 

The next morning, still no Misha. We needed more bottles. Word had reached us that our usual supplier had been hit. He was fine, no injuries, but the factory ...

“I need to try Bulag”, Taras said.  “They said his factory is still intact.  He has been making bottles for Coca Cola.”  

“Coca Cola,” I said incredulous. 

“Well, it is only war. Why would war stop Coke.” 

“Misha does the sourcing,” I said. "We should wait for him."

“We can’t wait. We are nearly out of bottles. The war effort needs us. It is not far.” 

“But there is danger,” I said. “Every step is a risk.” 

“It is only bombs. To die, you have to be unlucky. So far we’ve been lucky.”  

It wasn’t far, but it was further than we’d ventured for a full year.  We got lost at one point, lost in our own city.  

“Here, said Taras. It is down this alley, I know where I am now.” 

We got halfway down, and walked straight into two, fully armed Russian troops. We had nothing, not so much as a Cossak Coctail to throw at them. We could turn and run, but only if we fancied being shot in the back. 

“You are Taras?” The first soldier said.   

Taras said nothing, just stared at them defiantly. Why waste words when death awaits.  

“Taras Maselko,” the soldier continued. “You are most wanted man in Ukraine.” So saying he took a poster out of his pocket – 'The Most Wanted man in Ukraine' the poster said (‘after Zelensky obviously’, it added in brackets).

On a wanted poster, Taras’ picture made him look heroic, the Ukrainian Che Guevara, rugged, two-dimensional features. 

Taras shrugged. “So I am most wanted man in Ukraine. What of it?” 

“You don’t understand. You are famous. I have one of your bottles.  Would you sign.” 

The soldier took out one of our dickhead cocktail bottles, ‘Horror clowns are dickheads’.  

“We didn't ask to fight,” the soldier explained. “We are led by clowns. Clowns and donkeys.  Whereas you, you are led by comedians and brewers. You are our enemy, but we respect an enemy led by comedians and brewers.” 

Taras continued to stare.  In disbelief now. 

“What are your cocktails made from?” the soldier asked. “Vodka?” 

“Something like that,” Taras admitted, "Ninety percent alcohol.” 

“Ah, one of those weak Ukrainian vodkas.”  The soldier laughed. We laughed. For the brilliant and briefest of moments it was as if the war had ended.