OCR is Not the Only Font

My Big Fat Greek Weekend

As glad as the Minotaur had been to get out of the labyrinth for a couple of days, he had forgotten how hot it could be out in the sun. He wished he’d headed a bit further north than Greece, he wished he’d thought to bring a hat, and most of all he wished he’d bought some bicycle shorts while he was back in Crete. Apparently they didn’t do them in Minotaur sizes anywhere else. But Daedalus had been all like “Bicycle shorts? You’d look like the Cheeky Girls on Halloween” and the Minotaur had felt too self-conscious to go and get a pair. Sure, it was all well and good if you could just throw on a pair of wings and fly to Sicily, but some people only had a bike.

Stupid heavy jeans chafing horribly, the Minotaur was overjoyed to see the pub up ahead. Making sure to chain his bike securely to some sturdy railings—because you can’t be too careful while on holiday—he stepped inside. The cool shade inside was so nice that he didn’t really notice everyone staring as he stepped up to the bar.

“One beer, please,” he said.

There was an uneasy silence across the whole room.

“I’m sorry,” said the bartender. “We don’t serve Minotaurs here.” He pointed to a small but clearly typed sign next to the ouzo. The Minotaur was dismayed.

“You ‘eard the man,” said a very rude woman sitting at the bar. “Clear orff.”

“Look,” said the Minotaur, ignoring her (which seemed like the only polite thing to do). “It’s really hot. I just want to have a quick drink and be on my way.”

“I’m sorry, sir,” explained the bartender, “but that’s our policy: we don’t serve Minotaurs here.” He very helpfully pointed to the sign.

“Somebody kick this guy out!” Screeched the woman at the bar. “He’s covered in sweaty ‘air an he smells like old ‘amburgers.”

“Now now,” said the Minotaur, wrinkling his very large nose. “Let’s not get into who smells like what.” He turned back to the bartender. “Couldn’t you make an exception just this once? I’d only be a minute.”

“Oh no, sir. I don’t make the rules and if my boss found out I could lose my job.”

“Is he here now?”

“No.”

“Then I’m sure you could just…”

“No!” howled the woman sitting next to him. “Just clear orff! Nobody wants you ‘ere.” She gave him a shove.

Through a potent combination of heat, chafing and lack of beer, the Minotaur snapped. With a roar he wished he could have summoned that time he’d found Theseus sneaking around the labyrinth, he fell on the woman and devoured her. It only took a second, and he kind of hoped that nobody had…oh, no. They’d noticed. They’d all noticed.

“I’m…very sorry about that,” the Minotaur mumbled to the room as a whole. Guiltily, he picked up a wad of napkins and wiped his mouth.

“Well,” said the bartender, “that was very wrong of you, but I can’t pretend I’m going to miss her.”

“I don’t suppose I could have a beer, then?” the Minotaur asked hopefully.

“Oh no,” said the bartender, firmly. “We don’t serve Minotaurs here, and we certainly don’t serve Minotaurs who are on drugs.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well,” said the bartender, “that was the bar-bitch-you-ate.”