The Minotauress

Full of reeking bums eating their own boogers, bovine-faced bald lesbians, and a man with a beard and large breast implants—God Bless Seattle!—the Rte. 25 bus had brought Dean here from downtown—here being a tavern called THE WHARF which sat one street away from beautiful Lake Union, or not so beautiful when one considered the lake's history. For a hundred years, a coal-oil processing plant had dumped its petro-chemical effluence into the lake's pristine depths. Swimming was strictly prohibited, and if you ate a fish caught in Union's waters, any sequent offspring would more than likely be born with flippers. As for THE WHARF itself, it was an actual murder site: A number of years ago, a local "businessman" was shot in the head with a small-caliber weapon, evidently for running up too lofty a marker with other local "businessmen." Ajax and Dean sat at the self-same table.

The tavern made a garbage pit look well-appointed. Some entrepreneur took a couple of double-wide trailers, smacked them together, and that was it. That was the bar. The clientele fit right in, West Coast rednecks to the max. Heavy metal blared from the juke, billiard balls clacked in the back. A giant projection TV in the corner sported Monster Truck races.

Ajax sipped his Redhook ESB and winced. "So the wife let you out of the cage tonight, huh? Let me guess. Work meeting?"

Dean squirted lemon juice into his Pyramid Hefeweizen. "How'd you know?"

"Duh. What is this, like the eighth Friday night in a row she's had a work meeting?"

Dean grinned triumph against the ceaseless implication. "No, it's the sixth, smart guy."

"Oh, that's right. The other two work meetings were on Saturday nights. And you don't think that's odd."

"Why should I?" Dean retorted. "She's in an odd business. Clothing distribution isn't like working at a bank, you know. Most of their invoices go out on weekends."

"Whatever you say... "

For as long as they'd been friends, Ajax had always intimated that Daphne might be cheating on Dean, the prospect of which Dean viewed as preposterous. We're in love! he thought. He doesn't understand true love.

"How often do you drop wax?" Ajax asked.

"What?"

Ajax rolled his eyes. "How often do you fuck her? Let me guess—once every two weeks?"

Dean was taken aback. "Well, not quite that often. Once a month or so." Actually, it was more like once every two months... but why quibble?

Ajax laughed. "Christ, my grandparents fuck more than that."

"Marriage isn't about sex," Dean explained. "It's about a spiritual bond, an everlasting one. It's about commitment and total faith. It's about sharing your life with someone else. It's about love, Ajax," and at that precise moment an uncharacteristic selection switched on over the juke: "All You Need Is Love," by The Beatles.

"See that!" Dean clapped at the coincidence.

The side of Ajax's bearded face flopped into his palm. "You're hopeless. You live your life by advice from The Beatles."

"The Beatles were monumental," Dean defended. "The most important musical assembly in history."

"They were a bunch of acid-head hippie pinko guru-loving junkie shit-heads—"

Dean was long used to Ajax's rather conservative nature. Best to change the subject as quickly as possible. "We were talking about the reality of marriage, Ajax. Sex becomes faddish, much less important."

Ajax grinned. "Faddish?"

"Statistically, sex amongst happily married couple drops drastically after the second year."

"Not into the toilet," Ajax said. "Shit, man. If I was married to a woman as good-looking as your wife, I wouldn't even care if she was cheating on me. But I'd sure as shit be busting my nut up her cooze twice a day. No, with her? Make that three times. I'd be hosing her down like a fuckin' fire truck."

There was no arguing with him. He just doesn't understand, Dean realized. He's never been truly in love. Best to just leave it lie.

But even though Ajax was a weirdo, pervert, and asshole, he was also Dean's friend. And true friends were always there when you needed them. "Look, Ajax, I've got a problem. Do you know anything about—"

Ajax was rubbing his hands together at an image. "Yeah, I'd be dick-spanking that tramp every night. I'd be coring her asshole and dropping big peter-tracks on her back. Shit, I'd whittle my dick down to pencil-width and fuck her nose—"

"Ajax!" Dean was disgusted. "That's my wife you're talking about!"

"Oh, yeah. Sorry. I was just... .abstracting."

Dean simmered. "I was asking if you knew anything about psychology."

Ajax sipped his beer, then winced. "Does the pope have nocturnal emissions? Fuck, yes, I know about psychology. Shit, I majored in psych... before I quit college."

"Well, see, I've been having these—"

"Nocturnal emissions?"

"No," Dean said.

"So what's the problem, partner?"