The Factory

There once was a factory of the most extraordinary kind, the most exclusive and amazing kind. It was a gin factory. But it did not only produce gin, oh my no, but every kind of delicious booze and aid to consuming booze that a person could possibly conceive. This factory was created and run by a man who was almost as extraordinary as the factory he had created, a man so mysterious that he was only known by the name ‘Ole Grandpa’. Adorning every bottle of alcohol that left this mysterious, exclusive factory was his grave image sternly looking upon the purchaser, warning them to drink responsibly, but also with a certain twinkle in the eye, as if to add “Hey, but if you’re not driving then have another!” The factory itself was of such a mysterious nature because no one had been inside of it for decades. The former employees were all roundly fired and the place even shut down for a few agonizingly long years due to a lawsuit with another liquor developer whose name shall not be mentioned nor whose whiskey deplored. Ole Grandpa became so disgusted with a world that cared more about licensing than good liquor that at first he thought to refuse his product to everyone. And then one day, with no word to anyone, the smells of sour mash brewing and orders for fresh produce began to pour from the factory. The booze flowed, the people rejoiced, but still the gates remained closed to the general public.

Meet Gerry

In contrast to the extraordinary mystery of Ole Grandpa’s amazing factory was Gerry. A most ordinary, a most plain, a most refreshingly simple, alcoholic. So great was his love for the warm glow of a good gin drink that he moved away from his simple life in a small town and sought far and wide for the best type of booze he could find. What found him was Ole Grandpa’s amazing array of liquor. It was the only thing he would drink, caring not a bit for manners or feelings when he refused to drink anything less. Unless of course he was drunk or broke, in which case he would drink anything. Gerry had long ago adapted to drinking at lower elevations and had thus been forced to progressively move to higher elevations each time his body adapted to the endless font that was his habit. This constant march towards the sun, to higher places that had less oxygen and thus Gerry could still remain drunk, had resulted in his living in a very shabby shack on a very shabby mountain with a very shabby job doing yardwork. So remote was his home that he did not even hear about the contest proposed by Ole Grandpa. A most extraordinary contest, a most amazing one. Concealed within four bottles of liquor was a golden ticket, a ticket that would give entry to the one place countless few desired to see but had all been denied: the Gin Factory!

The Other Contestants

Across the world the four bottles of booze went, each containing a special ticket that would grant the bearer access to the Gin Factory. The first ticket was found by a most unlikely fellow: a frat boy named Walter. What made it so unlikely was how rarely Walter could afford the expense and grand taste of Ole Grandpa’s spectacular drinks. He had just been rejected by a bridesmaid at the wedding of a rather affluent family and stole the bottle from the bar. Sitting alone in the bushes by a gazebo, contemplating who would be the most interested in a midnight golf course ‘putting session’, he discovered the strange ticket and pocketed it without the slightest recognition. He awoke the next morning, still in the bushes, and was almost able to overcome his hangover at the joy of discovering the pass into the world’s most renown alcohol distillery and the mention of a prize on the ticket. One of the attendee’s would be receiving a lifetime supply of alcohol! The next to discover the prize was a slightly more likely person. In fact, it was no shock to anyone in the neighborhood or to his immediate family when he found the next ticket in a bottle of whiskey. Unfortunately, the man who found it also happened to be quite intoxicated and believing it to be a coupon for some ‘ass-licking bullshit fairy crap’ threw it into a burning trash pile. Unbeknownst to the man, his young son watched him and was quick to rush up and grab the ticket before any damage could be done. The boy’s name was Chatpers and he was twelve. Responding to Ole Grandpa’s website with the correct ID code on the back of the ticket, he confirmed that he was indeed twenty-one but that he would like someone to come in his place. The third person to discover the ticket was sorta kinda maybe as likely as the other two. Her name was Jonah, and she was a woman whose tastes in alcohol were so refined that she only drank Ole Grandpa’s liquors in the most dire of shortages of Chartreuse or Pinot Noir. While grumbling about the poor quality of the Vodka they had purchased she discovered the ticket and after offering it to all her friends (they politely refused such an unseemly trip) decided that it could perhaps be interesting. The only thing that concerned Jonah after that was what to wear.

Gerry Finds the Ticket!

The fourth and final ticket was in fact not technically found by Gerry. It was found by Greg. How close our story came to revolving around Greg and his misadventures in the Gin Factory, how boring it would have been! For you see, Greg was a Mormon and he found the ticket when he took a bottle of gin from an old bum while on his mission. Upon discovering the ticket, Greg realized both that he could in no way attend such a sinful place and could also with no safe conscience give it to someone else. So he balled up it and threw it into the snow, continuing on his way while oblivious to the wheels he had set in motion. For Gerry was working harder than ever in people’s yards, from sun up until sundown. The explanation for his sudden capacity to get up early was that the alcohol was no longer working. The reason he needed more money and thus work more was that the alcohol was no longer working. He had to buy more and more of Ole Grandpa’s fine whiskey and gin just to keep a buzz up. Yet all the while his liver merrily chugged on as if the debilitating fluids were mere water. Even the most seasoned and ball-busting of police officers in his little mountain town wouldn’t arrest him for public intoxication anymore. Shoveling away at yet another driveway while musing over what possible concoction he could create that would get him inebriated, Gerry happened upon the ticket! Pulling the soggy article out of the snow he gave it a brief shake and was about to chuck it into the road when he paused to read what it said. “Free tour of Ole Grandpa’s Liquor Factory!” he read aloud. Gerry shrugged and threw the ticket in the road. It was not until he had finished up and was walking out the driveway that he noticed it again and this time the back of the ticket as well. The prize, a lifetime’s supply of booze to one lucky touree, caused Gerry’s heart to drop in his chest. Here was his very salvation, his very cure for all his woes! All the booze he could ever drink!

The Contestants Arrive

Each of the contestants had their own method of getting to the small New Jersey town where the Gin Factory was built. Walter borrowed a fraternity brother’s SUV without asking. Jonah flew and took a limo from the airport and failed to tip the driver when he deposited her at the casinos in Atlantic City (a reasonable distance from the Factory, naturally). Chatpers set out from his small South Carolina town with only a bandana on a stick. He had twelve dollars that he had been saving and managed to get a drunk hobo to trade a bus ticket for twelve dollars and a whiskey bottle filled with iced tea. Gerry scavenged his house for every empty can he could find and recycled them, making enough money for both plane ticket and airport drinks. On the morning that the actual tour was to take place a small gathering formed outside the factory. It would be inappropriate to say there was a large gathering, because in order for a gathering to be large it must contain people who are simply standing about because other people are standing about. A small gathering consists only of people who know what is going on. A few old men, a gathering of emo kids wearing black nail polish, a few retired frat boys. The somber fans of Old Grandpa were gathered to wish on the lucky few that had broken into a shrine sacred to only a handful and protected by the world’s complete apathy. What, really, was the big deal about touring a Gin Factory? Not even a reporter from the local newspaper attended the event, though several radio DJs in Hoboken had done a fantastic redneck phone joke about a guy finding a ticket in the disposal then losing his hand. As each of the contestants appeared at the gates, all on time more or less, there was only the slightest hush to contain the noise of the outside world continuing on. But by some mysticism, it was enough. Only appropriate, considering how extraordinary a factory it really was.

Ole Grandpa Appears

The gates of the factory, which had remained closed for some time now, gave a sudden shudder and began to open. The creak was outrageous as rust and steel grinded together for the first time in ages. So outrageous that no one noticed the old man who appeared adorned in the strangest outfit anyone had seen in fifty years. When heads turned back from covering their ears and their eyes opened in recovery, they saw a man wearing a red cardigan and golfing pants. With loafers. And smoking a pipe. It was precisely fifty years since anyone had seen such a strange outfit because it seemed to be an outfit right out of the fifties. The strange man stepped forward and boomed in voice that sounded oddly reminiscent of a Clark Gable impersonation, “Hello, gang. I’m Ole Grandpa! Welcome…to the Gin Factory!” His arms went wide and he exhaled a great cloud of smoke. The chimney stacks and steel work seemed to take on a new light to the four contestants. Each one, in their own way, had never really thought much about the actual tour part of the contest, and it suddenly dawned to each that they would at the very least be seeing the place where every bottle of Ole Grandpa liquor came from. The first to speak was Walter, “Holy shit bro, I’m finally gonna see the place where they make the vodka! I’m gonna teabag EVERYTHING in this factory. That way, when someone drinks Ole Grandpa, they drink my balls!” No one particularly responded to this comment, but it did cause Gerry to cough a bit to cover up a laugh. Ole Grandpa was still standing before them in fifties regalia and seemed to be waiting for a comment that had some chance of a better response. He shuffled his feet and finally pronounced, “Well, you must be the four lucky winners! Do you have any questions before we step inside?” The four looked at one another and shrugged, much to Ole Granpa’s disappointment. Finally little Chatpers piped up, “Um, so why do you call it a Gin Factory if it makes every kind of alcohol?” Many heads in the crowd perked up at this, as did Gerry and Walter’s. Jonah rummaged in her purse for another cigarette. Ole Grandpa blinked and look around the crowd, his first chance at an audience in years. He took a drag on his pipe and gave a very thoughtful expression. “Because a gin hangover is the closest a person can come to death without actually dying.” The heads remained perked, though mainly out of confusion. With that, Ole Grandpa turned and waved for the four contestants to follow him in. The still-perked heads went back down due to the outrageous squeal of the gates closing.

Inside at Last

The group passed through the factory doors and entered a room that bore a startling resemblance to a soda fountain. Checkered floors, a teenage boy wiping the counter in a red apron, and a young blonde girl wearing a poodle skirt smiling at him as he worked. Gerry’s eyes grew wide as he saw rows upon rows of Ole Grandpa liquor behind the counter. Brands he’d never even heard of before, like cherry moonshine and Freedom Whiskey. Before anyone even had to ask Ole Grandpa clapped his hands and the teenager behind the counter jumped to attention. “Any drink you can name, drink it on ice or drink it plain. Never a bad time to have a drink, even if you’ve already talked to the kitchen sink!” Ole Granpda said before sitting down at the counter and receiving a bottle of whiskey from his employee. Everyone joined him and ordered something. Walter had the best vodka on the shelf mixed with cranberry juice, Gerry had a whiskey on ice with water and lemon, little Chatpers a little Shirley Temple, and Jonah a gin martini. There was a brief silence as everyone drank a little more deeply than normal to relax the awkwardness of stepping into a 50’s esque diner on a liquor factory tour. “Well, I suppose this gin is bearable, but you simply must try this brand from France. For only 80 dollars you ca-“ Jonah pronounced to no one in particular. She was interrupted by Ole Granpda as he slammed down his bottle, having drained a fairly impressive amount, and exclaimed: “No need to worry about alcohol from France, my dear. Brewed with far too much desire for money and suffering to ever get beyond the realm of fancy packaging. Now then!” Ole Grandpa jumped to his feet, walked over to Chatpers who was in mid-sip and tilted it forward, causing him to guzzle the whole thing. “Everyone, everyone. It is such an honor to have you on this most magnificent tour of my factory! Now if you would all please finish your drinks. Yes yes, rather quickly. Good, ah refills then. The paper cups, if you please. Very good. Now then, we are all here for a bit of an escape, are we not? Perhaps something of a bigger escape? Yes, indeed, for what else is alcohol for but escape, but easing our tired eyes looking upon such a tired world?” Ole Grandpa paused for a reaction. Again, a rather odd silence as no one quite knew what to say. Finally Walter broke the silence, “Fucking-A Bro.”