Boris has a brainwave.
A little research might have been a good idea, but no.
Frustration makes us do strange things.


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oOo

While Brontes has been an exile in the woodshed, things have been quiet here, today being no exception. It's almost like old times, those heady pre-bovine days when all was peaceful, calm and a little boring. As I sipped my drink this evening, I chatted with a good friend and neighbour from up the road. We reminisced, and when it was my turn I shared this tale with him.

The Inn was like a fridge. My breath immediately turned to fog when I went in through the swing doors, and the chill bite right through my pelt. Unsurprisingly, the place was empty; Boris was working alone behind the bar, polishing beer glasses and looking smug and somewhat self-satisfied. He even hummed tunelessly in time to his actions.

“Landlord! You are slipping, sir. This place is freezing!” I exclaimed. Boris’s head snapped up, a frown of annoyance replacing his near-peaceful expression. “What on earth is happening in here?” I asked, “It’s springtime outside, but it’s the depths of winter in here!”

Boris placed the glass purposefully into its place on the glass shelf behind him.

“I had decent air conditioning installed, old fox,” he said dismissively. “It’s perfect. Smell how fresh and crisp the air is. No more of your foul pipe smoke. No more nasty body odours. No more wet bull stink.”

He shuddered as he mentioned the bull. It was obvious he wasn’t fond of Brontes — our resident minotaur, troublemaker extraordinare, and nemesis of the landlord. Boris always complained about the bull’s habit of roaming around outside in bad weather and using the public bar as his drying area, where he would steam gently and leave a strange odour of damp leather hanging in the air. I took my usual seat at the bar and pulled my coat’s collar up around my neck. There was no way I could last in these temperatures.

“A hot toddy then please, Boris, and I shall take my leave.”

Boris looked surprised.

“Why would you want to leave so quickly?” he asked, immediately suspicious. “You always sit there for the afternoon and waste my time with your ridiculous tales.”

“Boris,” I smiled, “I didn’t realise you cared so much.”

“I don’t,” he grunted, topping my glass of Tullamore Dew (a most delightful whiskey) with boiling water and a sprinkling of cloves. A spoon of brown sugar and a quick stir later, it was served into my benumbed paws. “But you are a fixture of my bar, just like that stain on the wall over there.”

I chuckled and took a tentative sip of my drink.

“Good grief, Boris! This has already cooled! Seriously, you can’t have the bar this cold! Where are all the other regulars? No-one can bear this coldness!”

To his credit, he did look a little hurt.

“I’m only wearing a t-shirt and I feel warm,” he countered, fingering the sleeve of his garment.

“You’re a polar bear, Boris,” I replied. “You’d feel warm in a blizzard.”

“Hmph,” he sniffed, then left for the back room to change a keg. I resolved to sup up and ship out, but then the entertainment began.

Boris returned from the back room just as the swing door to the hallway opened. The bear faced the bull. Boris versus Brontes, round five hundred and twenty six. The big bovine was clad in his unseasonal warrior-wear: his simple loincloth, harness, and that lethal axe; he looked — as ever — moody and surly. His black, black eyes scanned the empty room curiously before he stomped over to his favourite seat, nodding a kind of greeting to me en route. Boris, his white fur as bright as Brontes’ black pelt was dark, glared at the bull that he always said caused him naught but grief.

“It’s cold,” Brontes observed, blowing a long fog of breath out into the room, just as I had. “Very cold in here.”

Boris was delighted with the bull’s reaction. I could almost read his thoughts. If the room was so cold that the nearly-naked minotaur got chilled then the landlord would gladly accept the loss of trade just to get rid of him. I found myself shaking my head sadly. Plans like that always go awry.

“Yes,” said Boris delightedly. “It is very cold in here, and that is how it’s going to stay. I am so sorry that I might lose your custom, as insignificant as it is. I’m sure every other pub in the parish would be much warmer. In fact, I’d imagine any one of them would suit you so much better, bull.” There was a hint of triumph carried in the polar bear’s tone.

Chickens, hatching and peremptory counting all came to my mind. You see, I knew a lot more about Brontes than Boris did.

“I don’t mind at all,” said the minotaur finally, as he stretched out, placed his arms up behind his head and smiled — a very rare thing to see. “I grew up in Tauria — that’s very near the pole, up past the tundra. It’s always cold in my homeland. I really love decent cold.”

Boris, if such a thing is possible, went pale beneath his white fur. He stormed over to the thermostat mounted on the wall and cranked it up to “extra-hot”, grinding his teeth in frustration.

I raised my glass in salute to Brontes and took off my coat.

oOo