The Brunswick

Last night I awoke from another dream: I truly saw the darkness pervading from The Brunswick. My subconscious threw the majority of the Founders KBS 2016 onto their wooden floor and up the wall. As I really didn't know just how truly rotten Nick was, until I was presented with an array of vastly overpriced Belgian beer (obviously gotten suspiciously from a recently closed down beer shop) lined up guiltily in the fridge. It was around half eight and there was no one in the bar apart from the Sycophants who pressed around Nick like he's some Gangsta and this is his meatball diner. Dark ... Never again. Sam has an outer shell encased in tattoos, but somewhere beneath he has a soul. Nick may be a anthropomorphic hell? Or maybe, like Shelob, he prepares to pounce and vent venom and devour the helpless for all eternity? It made my skin crawl, and my disposition was to flee, so my subconscious threw the vile retch to his knees as polished the dark brew off of the wall and skirting board. My vision could not look at these eyes any longer!