*You’ve rated the bar, you’ve cornhole’d with pride,

But now it’s time to let your cheeks get fried.

Out where the gravel kisses the grass,

Lies a ring of chairs… and alien sass.

This here pit? It ain’t just for s’mores—

It’s a beacon for ships and backdoor wars.

The logs are low, the coals run deep,

And the probe memories don’t let you sleep.

Veterans of Earth and Mars sit here,

Swapping tales over saucer beer.

So take a seat, if your cheeks still twitch,

And whisper: “They lit my fire and flipped my switch.”

If a breeze kicks up or a chair squeaks twice,

You’ve earned your clue—and maybe some ice.*

Last Ditch Brewpub