Brontes, a bad night, a bad temper and an axe.
Oh, such joy!
Minotaurs are not known for their social skills
... redux'd with a smile.

Series Link
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oOo


As usual, Brontes Brontesson was on the warpath.

Having just plodded through the stormy night to get to the bar, he was in foul humour and soaking wet. I nodded at him as he slewed the water off his pelt with his palm, much to the annoyance of the landlord. Of course, the minotaur stonewalled him. Boris looked at me with a sigh and a resigned shrug that surprised me. I was sure he would just boot Brontes back out into the night.

Hopelessly fed up with the tarbh warrior's ongoing antics, the bear decided on this occasion to ignore the bellicose bull, and allow Brontes to vent as he quietly polished his ale glasses, holding each one up to the dim light on the ceiling to check for pawprints, lipstick or fang marks. It had been a quiet evening, and there was no-one but we three in the inn. With the appalling weather of previous few days, it was unlikely anyone else would venture out into the storm just to have a sociable drink

The minotaur had found something to vent about. Looking up at the television over the window, he took offence at some comments made by a pundit on a farming programme that happened to be on. He began raving, roaring and bellowing at the 'television box' -- his term, I hasten to add. I, like any sensible fox (or any normal person, for that matter) call it a TV. The bull was interacting with the screen like it was alive -- I honestly believe he felt the tiny people on the screen could hear him. I didn't even know what the show was about until he began to hurl real abuse at it, and by then it was too late. His ire was raised, his teeth were bared and what little common-sense he had put on its hat, took up its suitcase and left for a short break in less stressful part of him.

Probably his horns.

Brontes suddenly screamed "THERE ARE NO SUCH LAWS!" at the screen, his agitation building to boiling point and his face turning puce under his black skin and pelt. Funny how it's visible, you know. I mean, his skin gets even darker, or something. It does that when he's embarrassed too, like the time a otter girl ripped his loincloth off in the middle of a full bar and ran off with it. But I digress.

I had managed to see enough of the programme to know it was all about agriculture and animal husbandry. Pictures of beef cattle were flashing up from time to time, while our very own huge chunk of steak was not at all happy with the points the panelists raised. I recall wondering if he perhaps believed it applied to all bovines, not just to the dumb-animal kind ... and I know what you're thinking. That's most unkind of you.

"I AM FREE TO GO WHERE I LIKE!" His ear-splitting bellow was deafing. I pursed my lips in annoyance and shook my head. Boris also had enough of the bull.

"BRONTES!", he yelled back, "if the television upsets you, SWITCH THE DAMN THING OFF!" and he slammed a pewter tankard onto the polished wood of the bar. That mark would take a bit of work to remove, I thought to myself.

The minotaur turned to the bear and gave a curt nod. Without warning, he grabbed his axe and swung it through the front of the screen! Boris yelled "NOOOOOOO" launching himself in a classic slow-motion lunge over the bar. I must say it was almost like a scene in a good action movie, but it was far too late. The steel blade ripped into the glass and electronics, shattering them spectacularly, flashes of sparkling glass and sparks lighting the room. Boris stopped dead, his jaw hanging open as he gaped at the wreckage. I hunkered down on my barstool, knowing that the bear was about to explode at the bull and inflict some fitting punishment or other.

It was just about then I noticed that Brontes had not moved from the end of his swing, and was standing rigid, all his muscles locked and his entire frame more or less motionless.

"Uh, Boris," I said quietly, "I think he's causing a bit of a short?"

Yes, I am known as a past master of the art of understatement. We both looked up to the ceiling, where the yellowish light-bulb was beginning to flicker, then back to Brontes, whose black pelt was slowly beginning to smoulder.

Boris's expression changed from an angry-bear face to a delighted-cub grin in less than a second. He stepped carefully away from the rain puddle around the minotaur's feet, and then -- with a pop! -- the power failed.

Before the two emergency lights came on, we had a lovely vision of a blue-aura'd tarbh sparking and discharging in little fizzes of electrons as he stood in the midst of the wreckage.

Slowly, majestically, inexorably, the huge minotaur toppled, doing a fine simulation of a felled tree as he landed squarely on his snout. Concerned for my friend, I ran over to his aid, past the quaking form of the bear who had doubled over with laughter, tears streaming from his eyes.

"Brontes! BRONTES! Speak to me! Are you alright? Brontes!"

The smell from him was a combination of scorched fur, wet leather, ozone and roast steak and I'm embarrassed to admit my stomach gurgled loudly. He smelled like good food. Boris guffawed even more.

"Brontes! Are you alive?"

"No," came a muffled sound from somewhere under his face. I was relieved to hear his voice. "The man in the television box hurt me."

As the smoke rose slowly from the tips of his horns, I tried my best to hide a grin, and failed spectacularly.

oOo