Face to face with the bear, I raised my baseball bat and watched him, but he seemed more interested in the garbage dumpster he had just plundered. "Bash his brains out," the crow in the driveway shouted, but the bear's hackles relaxed down his neck as he continued eating from a white hefty bag. "Is that good," I asked. The bear nodded. "Can I get a cold one?" he said. I went inside and uncorked a Sam Adams. "I'm sure that serving beer to a bear is against the law," I said, but handed it to him anyway. "Show me the law," he countered. He stood up to slug it down, and I could see he had a roll of fat around the middle, a big beer gut. Very unbearlike, I thought. "Give me another, please." In no time he downed five more beers and devoured the garbage. Now he looked drunk, stumbling around in the carport, banging on the car hood, knocking things over. "Jump him while he's drunk," the crow cried. "Get me another," the bear demanded. "I'm out," I said. "Besides, I don't believe you're a bear; you're just a drunk disguised as a bear." "No, I'm a beer disguised as a bear," he answered, pouring himself into the bottle, where he became a bottle of bear. "Cap it," the crow shouted before he gets away." He cawed loudly, and soon the driveway was full of crows, demanding I take action. Before he could pour himself out again, I chugged him down, the bear burning in my belly, demanding more, more.