The Indifference League by Richard Scarsbrook

his breath and watches. Oh, yeah. Oh, yeah.
    â€œTaste it and tell me what you think,” she says, handing him a sample of the wine. “It’s what I serve to potential customers at the gallery.”
    Mr. Nice Guy makes a big show of swirling the wine around inside the plastic cup, sniffing it like he’s drawing his final breath, and then swishing the wine around in his mouth, wearing an expression like he’s trying to solve a complex equation.
    It smells like cat piss and it tastes like rocket fuel , he thinks. With a hint of lemon .
    â€œSublime and delicious!” he declares. “Your taste is impeccable.”
    â€œSublime and delicious!” SuperKen mocks him. “Did you turn impeccably gay since the last time we saw you?”
    If Miss Demeanor were here, Mr. Nice Guy would definitely tear a strip off SuperKen for that insensitive remark, but since she’s not, he decides to let it slide.
    â€œStill a beer man,” he grunts, “just wanted to try some wine.” Then he bravely adds, “And a real man does what he wants. Without worrying what others think.”
    â€œSays the librarian to the warrior,” SuperBarbie giggles.
    â€œI’m not a librarian ,” Mr. Nice Guy protests. “I’m an archivist .”
    The Statistician returns and plunks his lawn chair down to the left of Hippie Avenger.
    â€œWench!” he cries, “A brown ale for this thirsty traveller!”
    â€œHey!” Mr. Nice Guy protests.
    â€œHe’s just kidding,” Hippie Avenger says. She reaches into the cooler and hands The Statistician a dripping brown bottle, then tosses a differently labelled brew to SuperKen.
    â€œLight beer?” SuperKen protests. “ Queer beer? Toss me-real one, okay? Mr. Nice Guy can drink this one when he’s finished with his wine .”
    Mr. Nice Guy decides to let it slide this time, also.
    Hippie Avenger’s second toss is more forceful than the first, and Tom Thomson High’s former Male Athlete of the Year fails to catch it.
    â€œDon’t get up, sweetie!” SuperBarbie yelps. “I’ll get it!”
    She chases the bottle as it rolls clinking over the pebbles, and she soaks her sneakers when the surf tugs it into the water. When she finally hands the beer to her War Hero, he says, “Thanks, babe.”
    He’s popped the cap and chugged down most of the bottle’s contents before SuperBarbie has even settled back into the field marshal’s chair.
    â€œDon’t get up, sweetie!” she says, jumping up again, and scrambling for the cooler. “I’ll get you another.”
    â€œThanks, babe,” SuperKen says, grinning absently.
    â€œHe sure developed a taste for that stuff in the Forces,” SuperBarbie says, almost apologetically.
    After the beer-fetching routine has been repeated six times, SuperKen stands up from his wheelchair.
    â€œSweetie!” SuperBarbie says, “Please! Rest your poor legs. Y’know, whatever you need, I can do it for you!”
    â€œI need to take a piss,” he says. “You can’t do that for me, honey. And, unlike Mr. Nice Guy, I don’t do it sitting down.”
    Mr. Nice Guy doesn’t say anything this time, either, but his fuse is getting shorter.
    SuperKen sways from side to side as he hobbles away from the fire, disappearing into the moon-shadow behind a clump of tamarack that serves as the traditional outdoor urinal of the male Not-So-Super Friends.
    â€œWould one of you guys go with him,” SuperBarbie frets, “and make sure he’s okay?”
    The Statistician heads for the Pee Tree. “I’ve got to go anyway,” he says.
    â€œI would have gone with him, too,” Mr. Nice Guy reassures SuperBarbie and Hippie Avenger.
    â€œYou’re such a nice guy,” Hippie Avenger says.
    *
    The Statistician positions himself in front of the Pee Tree beside SuperKen, and is about to unzip his