The town is flooded. But not in nature-is-vicious New Orleans during Katrina sort of way; more like a permanent war-of-attrition city of Venice sort of way. But you load them into your gondola, your bottles. Gently you bring them down out of the closet, and gently you remove them from their boxes, and gently you lay them flat into the bottom of the boat. Each bottles goes into a little cradle. Grabbing your pole, you begin to push your gondola through the canals. And you hear the hiss. A fine plume of mist has sprouted from one of the bottles. You hunch down to inspect it. The hissing gets louder. You smell the hoppy aroma of the IPA within. You grab the bottle and hurl it over the side. It explodes before it hits the water. Shards of glass like grenade fragments. It was only one, you tell yourself, and take up your pole again. But then you hear the hissing again. More than half of the bottles have sprouted plumes. You drop into the fetal position just as every bottle in the gondola explodes with a gush of nebulized IPA.