A Punch to the Stinger For this ale to have landed in your hands it has survived a rather exotic journey. It began, as these things do, far, far away in an untamed land where desert isles and seafaring trader's caravans alike evoke dreams of purple sands and mysterious flora, swallowed and hidden by a fathom upon a fathom of never-ending sea. And so it was there, where the ancient ritual drums could be heard past the tropics sands and deep in the jungle, that we found this recipe sealed with a scorpion's kiss. Midnight poetry whispered on the breeze of this mystical libation "my moon and my sun, my fairest one, a liquid dream of delight to awaken in the night." It is also warned, however, that betwixt the ripples of the Scorpion Bowl, mingled midway on the waves, one can hear the wailing of a lamenting lover, lost in the ancestral voices, measureless to mankind. And here you stand seeking Kismet, answering love's command. You've gotten this far, and find yourself wondering if scorpions indeed do kiss. "As true as the stars and the moon, yes, yes they do, with bittersweet tropical poetry, they kiss just for you."