Release The Kraken

RELEASE THE KRAKEN….or…A Sea Beast by the Name of Regret

By: Mason Absher

There are dark spirits in this world.

And then…

There is The Kraken!

At a first glance, it hardly seems insidious

But just one sip, and you’ll soon be deciduous

That being said, don’t get yourself down.

I’ll share with you the warnings that the Kraken has come to town:

An ornate glass bottle that piques the imagination

A label that warns of hubris and ruination

A spirit so potent it could tear the rigging from your memories and send them drifting out to sea.

A rum so smooth, you can drink it like iced tea!

This is a tale from my youth.

When I was reckless. Curious.

And very, very bad at saying “no” to free liquor.

I don’t remember the first time I drank Kraken.

But I remember the second.

I woke up in someone’s apartment the next morning…I think his name was…Jimmy?

I was twelve hundred knots above sea level…

with a traffic cone on my head…a bruised knee…

and no idea how I’d gotten there.

The Kraken does not arrive gently.

It comes in swigs.

Straight from the bottle.

Offered like communion by friends who should know better.

With glasses raised, they’d say:

“To poor decisions,”

“To legendary nights!”

“To unleashing the beast!”

And unleash it… we did.

Each bottle was a map of mayhem.

A journey into the fog.

You take one sip—you’re charming.

Two—you’re loud.

Three—you’re atop the table, reciting Hamlet in a pirate accent.

Four?

You are the table.

I once drank half a bottle of the old beast and woke up in a bathtub—fully clothed—holding a slice of pizza like it was that door from the Titanic.

I once urinated on my own television set.

I once fist-fought my own reflection because I thought I was the very knave who had wronged me in a high-stakes game of Uno several years back.  

I once climbed a utility ladder and gave a dramatic reading of Paul’s letters to the Corinthians to no one—no one—on the roof of a Speedway Convenience Store.

And when I say once, of course, it was always more than once

The Kraken, my friends, does not knock.

It boards.

It commandeers.

And when it’s done… it vanishes,

leaving only vague memories, sandwich crumbs, and shame.

The hangovers were…epic.

Biblical in nature, if unnatural in scope.

Like my brain had been scraped out with a rusty spoon.

The Kraken doesn’t just steal your night—it owns it…it. The next morning it evicts it…it charges interest…and…storage fees!

Eventually, we began to fear the bottle.

Started hiding it. Refusing to say its name.

“Don’t open that,” we’d say. “The beast is sleeping.”

It became a warning.

A threat.

A myth whispered between friends as we matured into people who drank things that came with labels we could pronounce.

I haven’t touched The Kraken in years.

But every now and then… I see it.

On a shelf behind the bar.

That same dark bottle. That same squid in mid-attack.

And I feel the ghost of a headache pass behind my eyes.

I nod respectfully.

And I walk away.

Because I survived the beast.

I lived to tell the tale.

And some nights—

some sacred, stupid, beautiful nights—

I remember what it was like…

to be foolish

and fearless

and drunk on freedom.

Release the Kraken?

Oh, I did….

And it released me—into chaos, fury, and reckless adventure

I wouldn’t do it again.

But I’m damn glad I did it once.

And when I say once…

Well, that’s enough for today.