Generally I wouldn't stoop to posting personal drama on the public news,
but after the disasterous course of events that compiled my "date" last
evening, I found myself in need of catharsis. Perhaps my testament will
stand as a warning to the poor, unsuspecting women who might be
desperate enough to consider Mendax for companionship. To Oenone, I
extend my deepest sympathy-- I don't know how you've put up with it. I'd
have castrated him on the honeymoon.

Yesterday morning, Mendax approached me as I was leaving Ashtan, and
asked if I would join him for dinner. As many know, I'm one to shy away
from the dating scene, but considering Mendax was an old friend and has
been going through some rough times, I accepted his offer. It was agreed
that he would pick me up around dusk.

I spent the day running errands, and returned home late that afternoon
to find Mendax already waiting in my front yard and dressed to the nines
in the latest fashions...from the era before Nicator. He had managed to
squeeze his rotund corpus into stained hose at least two sizes too
small. His significant gut swelled from beneath the single button of his
ragged doublet, and poured unattractively over his waistband. The
mountain of flab was hardly covered by a filthy, faded t-shirt-- a hole
was torn directly over the right nipple, and a tuft of snowy chest hair
seemed to highlight the area. Words had been embroidered across the aged
fabric, "Yarr! I be a pirate. Check out me booty!" At once, I began to
realize that accepting this invitation may have been the biggest mistake
I've made since our son was conceived.

He was polite enough to wait outside while I bathed and got changed, and
around dusk I stepped through the door in my best gown, ready to face
whatever the evening had in store. Mendax had gathered me a bouquet
while I was busy (and had decimated my neighbours' flower beds in the
process). I'd have hell to pay for that later, but I suppose it's the
thought that counts. He offered me his arm, and I took it, careful not
to allow the stains on his clothing mar the fine satin of my sleeves,
and we set out into the night.

We ended up patroning the brewery in Cyrene, as I had a craving for
sushi and absinthe. Mendax was, apparently, jonesing for their pudgy
waitress. She seated us, took our drink orders, and was rounding to go
before Mendax said, "Why don't you sit and join us? You might be a bit
tubby, but I think the bench will hold." Her rubicon cheeks flushed pure
red and a dangerous anger crept its way into her eyes. However, her lips
remaind firm in their pout and she replied coolly that she had other
tables to attend to. Moments later, she returned with our drinks--
Mendax's cocktail bore a rather significant froth of mucus. He drank it
anyway, and commented on the odd texture as he gave the waitress a firm
slap on the rear. She looked as though she were about to punch him. In
order to save her gelatinous buttcheeks from round two, I took Mendax's
hand and began to engage him in a conversation about the recent turn in
his marriage.

Fourteen Mudslides later, Mendax was on the floor in the fetal position,
sobbing as he bemoaned his fate. Though still quite embarrassing, I
surmised that this spectacle would be less mortifying for me than being
tossed out of the establishment because my date couldn't keep his hands
off of a portly barmaid. I ordered another glass of absinthe and pulled
my cigarette case out of my pouch. I was in the process of securing a
cigarette into my holder when I heard a sonorous, trumpet-like sound
from beneath the table. Something wet slapped against my ankle. With a
shudder of revulsion, I bent down to peer below the table and saw that
Mendax had used the the hem of my skirt-- 5,000 gold worth of hand-woven
black organza-- as a handkerchief. I rolled my eyes and lit my smoke,
inhaling slowly and deeply as I tried to remind myself that putting a
spiked heel through his temple wouldn't do anything but exacerbate my
situation. Around this time, the waiter (the waitress refused to come
anywhere near us) returned with my absinthe and our meal. I gently
prodded Mendax back into his seat, wiped his nose for him, and handed
him a fork.

By the time dessert was served, Mendax was relatively sober and acting
more pleasant than he had all evening. We were preparing to leave and
had called for the check when he realized he had left all of his gold
back in Ashtan. With his fervent apolgies and promises that he would
reimburse me, I paid for dinner and left a very generous tip for the
waitress, who had disappeared into the back and hadn't returned. As I
ushered Mendax outside, she poked her head from around a corner and
said, in a piqued whisper, "You'd be better off wedding an orc, mum! The
brutes have better manners!" I nodded apologetically and pointed to the
pile of sovereigns on the table we'd just vacated, which seemed to cheer
her considerably.

The streets of Cyrene were still crowded with the night life as I guided
Mendax, still weaving slightly from the liquor, though the streets
toward home. He stopped staunchly, however, at Centre Crossing, and
wouldn't be cajoled to move until I gave him a sovereign. I did so
reluctantly. He'd already lightened my purse considerably over the
course of the evening. He slipped the sovereign into a slit in the side
of his codpiece, which was so horribly tacky that I had refused to even
acknowledge that he was wearing it before. Next to the slit was a small
crank. He turned the crank, and I heard the tiny hum of gears as the
front of his codpiece slowly peeled away to one side, essentially
exposing himself for all in Centre Crossing to see. He began to walk
around, his genitals hanging out, greeting the ladies with, "Good jera!
Tell me, how do you like my package?" I was so aghast with his behaviour
that I didn't move to stop him, but rather stared in abject horror as
the spectacle continued. Eventually he made his way to the base of
Cyrene's famed clock tower, and let loose with a stream of urine while
whistling an Ashtani fight song. Everyone stood there frozen, glancing
from him, to me, to him, their expressions cemented in disgust and
disbelief. For the first time in decades I felt myself flush to what I
imagine was a brilliant crimson.

While Mendax was occupied with his post-piss jiggle, I made a break for
it. I ran out of Cyrene, up the mountain, and made it halfway back along
the southern highway before he finally caught up to me. I was panting
and covered in sweat, my gown was ruined, and I was still teeming with
anger and embarrassment. When he realized how upset I was, he launched
into an apology, which needless to say I didn't accept. Instead, I
socked him so hard in the jaw that it knocked him out cold. I don't know
what happened to him afterward, and I'm inclined to say that I don't
care, but I believe I caught a glimpse of him tangled in the loving
embrace of Flaubert early this morning as I headed out to assist one of
my students. Oenone's right-- his attachment to that bear is quite
unhealthy.


Consider yourselves warned, and stay away. Far, far away.

-Amunet

Penned by my hand on the 22nd of Mayan, in the year 418 AF.