Hella Anointed

In the quiet town of Redemption Ridge, nestled between misty mountains and endless stretches of golden wheat fields, there was a legend that had been whispered in low voices for generations. A beer so potent, so divine, it was said to grant clarity to the lost and purpose to the aimless. They called it Hella Anointed.

No one knew who had brewed it or where it had come from, but rumors swirled that it was crafted by a hermit monk centuries ago—blessed by both the hands of man and the grace of God. Some believed it was hidden in the abandoned monastery at the edge of the ridge. Others claimed it would only appear to those truly seeking redemption.

For Marcus Kincaid, the beer was more than just a legend. It was a lifeline. He had arrived in Redemption Ridge a broken man, fleeing a life of mistakes and burnt bridges. The whispers of Hella Anointed reached him in the dim light of Brethren Brewing Company, where locals swapped tales over pints.

"You cannot just find it," a grizzled old man named Earl said, tapping the rim of his glass. "You gotta earn it. You gotta be willing to walk through the valley of your sins."

Marcus laughed nervously, but Earl’s eyes burned with sincerity.

That night, unable to shake the words, Marcus set out for the monastery. The trail was overgrown, winding through a dark forest that seemed to close in on him with every step. As the wind whispered through the trees, it almost sounded like a choir singing faint hymns.

When he reached the crumbling stone building, the air was thick with incense—though none burned. A single stained-glass window, depicting a chalice and wheat, remained intact, glowing faintly with moonlight. Marcus stepped inside, his footsteps echoing through the hollow halls.

In the center of the room stood a wooden altar, and atop it, a single bottle of beer. Its label was simple: a cross made of barley stalks, with the words Hella Anointed scrawled beneath. The bottle seemed to hum faintly, a vibration Marcus could feel in his chest.

He reached for it, but before his fingers could touch the glass, a voice echoed through the room.

“Do you seek to drink, or do you seek to heal?”

Marcus froze. The voice was neither threatening nor kind—it was steady, as if weighing his soul.

“I… I seek to start over,” Marcus said, his voice trembling. “I’ve hurt people. I’ve lied. I’ve stolen. I don’t know how to make it right.”

The silence stretched, heavy and suffocating. Then, the voice spoke again.

“To drink this is to confront the truth. Are you prepared for the judgment of your heart?”

Marcus nodded, though he wasn’t sure he truly was. He uncorked the bottle, and the aroma that escaped was unlike anything he’d ever known—sweet, bitter, and ancient. He took a sip.

The world around him dissolved, and he was thrust into a vision. He saw every wrong he’d ever done, every person he’d ever hurt. The pain of it was unbearable, but as tears streamed down his face, he felt something else: forgiveness. Not from those he had wronged, but from within himself.

When he awoke, the monastery was gone. He was standing back at the edge of town, the bottle still in his hand. Its label was blank now, as if its purpose had been fulfilled.

Marcus returned to Brethren Brewing Company the next day. He didn’t tell anyone what had happened, but he no longer needed to. The weight he had carried for so long was gone.

And somewhere, deep in the forests of Redemption Ridge, Hella Anointed waited for the next lost soul ready to find it.

Now available in the taproom.