Your craving for coffee flavor and aroma cannot be appeased. You try all the so-called coffee stouts. You remain disappointed. You realize the beer you need does not exist. You begin to dream about this beer. You leave the brewery less and less. Your friends express concern. Then fear. Then they simply stop calling. You don’t notice. It dawns on you: your obsession has become your calling. You alone can deliver this grail. You pace the brew house floor. You write recipes. You rewrite recipes. You forget to sleep. You walk in a waking dream. You brew a big stout. It is not big enough. You sewer it. You start from scratch. You develop a twitch that would send most people to a specialist. You brew a robust and subtly sweet imperial stout. You very nearly break your hand punching a wall in elation. You order your coffee. It is not enough. You harass your roaster. You sense his uneasiness when you appear unannounced. In his pocket, you imagine he has his hand on his phone. You poke a finger into his chest. More coffee. You watch a sheriff’s deputy drive off the lot. You throw away the restraining order he served you. You grind the coffee. You pour it directly into the fermentation tanks. Your fingers are permanently stained. You are half mad. It’s not enough. You add more coffee grounds. You wipe sweat from your fevered brow. Have you finally gone around the bend? You don’t remember how this all began. You only know where it will end. You cold steep a serious java. You blend it in the brights. You open the zwickel straight into your mouth. Your eyes roll back. You wake up on the packing hall floor. You have grown wings. You speak telepathically. You christen yourself Arabifex Maximus. A mere motion of your hand brings the packaging line to life. You are midwifing a legend. You are writing the future. You grab a bottle as it comes out of the labeler. You pop the crown. You pour the result. You are transported on a wave of aroma. You sob until you shake. You raise the glass. You part your lips. You glossolaliate. You let the first drops coat your tongue. You leave your body. You radiate infinitely in all dimensions. You have brewed Mother's Imperial Grind.