The Indifference League by Richard Scarsbrook Page B

of a straightened wire coat hanger, The Statistician is holding a bratwurst sausage in the flames. “Want it?” he asks Hippie Avenger.
    She wrinkles her nose like she always does. “You mean, do I want to eat a tube full of chemicals and fatty, nutrition-free flesh cut from an animal that was cruelly imprisoned and force-fed hormones and antibiotics?”
    â€œJust checking,” The Statistician says.
    â€œWhy don’t you leave her alone,” Mr. Nice Guy says. “You know she’s a vegetarian.”
    â€œI eat some meat now,” Hippie Avenger says, shrugging.
    â€œYou do?” Mr. Nice Guy gasps.
    â€œYeah. Sometimes.”
    â€œShe was anemic,” The Statistician says. “Her body needed the iron. And the protein, too.”
    â€œOh,” says Mr. Nice Guy, visibly hurt. He’s the one who listens to the women talk about their problems, not The Statistician.
    â€œListen,” Hippie Avenger says to The Statistician, “if you cook up any sausages made from free-range chicken, I’ll be first in line, okay?”
    â€œI’ll go into town and get some for you tomorrow,” The Statistician says. “Nobody should have to go without sausage.”
    â€œBelieve me,” Hippie Avenger says. “I’ve gone, like, way too long without it.”
    â€œI know what you mean,” mutters The Statistician, as he slides the bratwurst into the soft inside of a bakery bun lubricated with mustard.
    Oh my God! Hippie Avenger thinks. “ I’ve gone way too long without it.” Like, was I being flirty with The Statistician?
    Then, an even crazier thought : “Nobody should have to go without sausage.” Was he being flirty with me?
    She decides that this is impossible. The Statistician? Flirty? Come on. He’s all brain, no feelings. There’s a reason they called him The Android.
    Still, her arousal response has a hair-trigger these days, and this maybe-but-probably-not flirtation is enough to stir that familiar warm, aching, tugging feeling inside her. Nobody should go without sausage, indeed. The Purple Pal will be seeing some action tonight.
    â€œ I can go into town and get some organic meat for you,” Mr. Nice Guy says. “I know a little butcher shop out on one of the concession roads.”
    â€œThanks,” Hippie Avenger says, patting his shoulder. “That’s sweet of you.”
    â€œSo then,” The Statistician says, waving the blackened bratwurst in its bun, “who wants to eat this tube full of chemicals, fat, hormones, and antibiotics?”
    â€œI’ll take it,” says SuperKen, from his wheelchair. “They feed us worse stuff than that in the Forces.”
    â€œMy hero,” SuperBarbie says, fetching the sausage for him. “I’ll bet you’re hungry, poor thing. It’s been a tiring day for you, with all that driving and everything. Maybe we should go get some sleep now.”
    SuperBarbie gives SuperKen a subtle look, the type of expression that The Statistician never gets from Time Bomb, but that he may have just received from Hippie Avenger. But probably not. It was likely just the shifting light from the fire deceiving his eyes, combined with his desperate libido playing tricks on his brain. It was probably nothing.
    SuperKen munches on the bratwurst and winks at The Statistician as SuperBarbie wheels him around the fire and toward the cottage.
    Mr. Nice Guy glances conspicuously at his Super G Digital Athletic Chronometer, which reads 11:11 p.m. He stretches, yawns, and says, “Well, it’s late. I think I’ll turn in, too.” He turns to Hippie Avenger, who is wearing an expression similar to the one demonstrated by SuperBarbie, and he says, “Care to join me?”
    â€œThat’s okay, dude. I think I’ll stay out here for a while.”
    â€œOh,” he says. “Okay.”
    He slumps toward the cottage, sighing after every third