Dead Men Tell No Tales

It’s the 2nd of Jan. We have successfully left 2018 behind. Or so we think. I have just rewarded myself with a tattoo of a wolf. Random, but I figure at the very least, the wolf will stick around this year. It’s done well, the tattoo. Every time I stare at it, it seems like the wolf is gazing at me, keeping an eye on me.

It’s 9:30 in the night when my father, my mother and I sit down at the dining table for a chat. It’s the first time in ages we’ve sat down and talked. Like, really talked. We spoke for over an hour and a half. We went about our usual routine at home and we said our family prayers. I asked my dad for his blessings. He said, “God bless you”.

That was his cue. That was when he’d have his dinner and go into his bedroom and watch the telly. I went about my routine and fell asleep at about 2 in the morning. It was barely 3:30 in the morning when I was woken up by my mother yelling, “We have to take daddy to the hospital!”.

It was 3:30 in the morning, but I was still chilled out, telling my mother not to panic, to just call an ambulance while I pumped his heart. I put my ear to his chest; listened for a heartbeat. It was faint, but it was there, reaching out; hoping someone would reach for it and grab its hand. The poor heartbeat only found the pumping of a child. A child who thought he’d grown up since he’d turned 23.

The child kept pumping, while his mother waited for an ambulance. But time belongs to the same club as hope – The Little Bitches Breakfast Club.
So, we decided to take him to the hospital ourselves.

The 23 year-old child kept pumping his heart. He could feel it. He could feel it sleeping away; the heartbeat. It was faint to begin with, but now it was giving up. Almost like it was too tired, like it was exhausted from a long drawn battle. Maybe it was from the stress that rose from what the father wondered would bring for his 23 year-old good for nothing child. Maybe it was something else. Only He knows. If He exists, that is.

But it was too late. By the time he reached the hospital, it was too late. As the life left the father’s body, the child could feel a part of his own soul slipping away. He held a hand out, trying to reach out to that part of his soul, trying to convince it to stay. But it was a marker; a marker of things to come. Then there was a stony silence.

A wail.

When the child heard the news, everything went blank. There was a ringing in his ears. A ringing that would not stop till the father was cremated. A gray pit started to form in his stomach. Every breath he took, every bit of saliva he swallowed ended up in that ravenous pit; ever consuming, never satisfied. The pit wasn’t willing to disappear. When it would, only He knows; if He exists, that is.

They say dead men tell no tales. But this one did. This one told a tale of unpredictability; of how fickle life can be. One minute you can be sitting around the dining table chit-chatting with your family; not a care in the world. The other, you’re lying on the bed gasping for breath, hoping that someone or something can save you. Maybe the entity you’ve been praying to all life long. Maybe your child. Maybe you can see people trying to help. Maybe you’ve already slipped away.

This one told a tale of hope. Hope can be a beautiful thing, even the most powerful of things. But like a really hot cup of filter coffee, you have to know when to lay it down and when to pick it up and sip on it. Sometimes it can burn you. Sometimes it can awaken you. It can even sustain you. But all you need to know is when to let go.

It’s all over. He’s passed away. I’ve been up since 3:30 in a state of shock. In a moment of loneliness, I look back at my tattoo; at the wolf; in the hope that at least the wolf can give me solace. I look at it. But its eyes are no longer keeping an eye on me. They’re looking into the grey misty indifference. I look towards the future. It echoes the vision of the wolf.

Advertisements

The Land Of The Creep and the Home Of The Grave

It had been “one of those days” for Col Drogo for years now. Sleep would not come to the homuncular warrior. Night after night he would wait for sleep to unhinge her jaw and swallow him whole, but there was no sign of her. It seemed that whenever he would next collapse would be purely up to the gods. He floated about the lands aimlessly, looking for a purpose, a quest, something to make life on Midgard worthwhile.

But Col Drogo was a tired soul now. All of the fighting, all of the battles had taken its toll on the warrior. He needed to know what to do next; what to see. And there was, but one way to see into the future – magic mushrooms.

One needed to know exactly what kind of mushrooms to consume and for what purpose. Some mushrooms showed visions of the future, some had the death trance effect, while some mushrooms could turn the average warrior into a Berserker. And of course, if you couldn’t find any of these magic mushrooms, store bought would be fine. But Col Drogo had walked with the gods in his youth; he knew exactly which mushrooms to pick and consume.

So, the warrior ground up the magic mushrooms and made a mushroom ale to induce visions. And what a vision it was. The warrior foresaw a great battle. He saw scores of Vikings standing witness to this battle, while he swung his scythe in a frenzy. Blood poured down his scythe like a Biblical plague. For all intents and purposes, it seemed to the warrior that this was a battle that would go down in history. It seemed like he had found his purpose.

Empowered by this vision and serenaded by imaginary angels singing AC/DC’s Back in Black, Col Drogo set out on the journey towards Iki-Bin Onsekiz, the land the vision had directed him towards, with a wolfskin on his back and the scythe of annihilation – Hellscream – on his waist. It was a fairly easy journey, made even easier by the copious amounts of mead the warrior gulped down. In no time, Col Drogo found himself in a half-drunken haze walking towards the village of Iki-Bin Onsekiz.

As he entered the village, Col Drogo found a drum of water and dunked his head in. The water was as cold as the heart of an ex; it sobered him straight down. Refreshed, the warrior made his way to the alehouse and took a seat, scanning the environment.

The warrior saw Vikings everywhere and most of them looked less like men and more like bears. However, there was a distinct sadness in their eyes. On making some enquiries, Col Drogo heard of a certain warrior who went by the name of Björn Bloodbone. Why he was named “Bloodbone” was a tale no one dared tell. This intrigued the warrior. So, Col Drogo approached the warrior Björn Bloodbone and challenged him to a Holmgang – a duel wherein the victor would be entitled to all of the possession of the vanquished, and the vanquished would be, well… dead. It seemed like a fair deal, since Col Drogo had the scythe of annihilation, whereas Björn Bloodbone had land and treasure; treasure that would make Col Drogo a king in the eyes of the land. But it was not the power he was after. Bloodlust, rather.

Björn Bloodbone, however, was least interested. “I would love to hear the sound of your Odin’s apple grinding against your spine, homunculus. But fate has greater plans for you. Do not, for one moment, think that we would let a Berserker into our village unless we had plans for him.”

It was at that moment Col Drogo decided that Björn Bloodbone would be the irritating grain of sand around which would form the pearl of his renaissance. Dissatisfied, Col Drogo ordered another round of ale, but as he glanced upwards, he noticed that the alehouse was now empty. All the Vikings had left. Just then, the earth beneath him started to quake violently. It seemed like the land was opening up to swallow the alehouse and everything in it, including the warrior. Startled, it took the warrior a minute to realize what was happening. His foot slipped, and he started to fall into the earth. At once, Col Drogo unsheathed his scythe and stuck it in the land above. He propelled himself upwards and escaped the alehouse. When the warrior escaped, he saw that the land had devoured the alehouse.

Struggling to get a grip on what was happening, the warrior approached Björn Bloodbone and asked for an explanation. The mountain was more than happy to oblige.

For years now, Iki-Bin Onsekiz was a village in turmoil. The land would often quake and open up to devour women, children, livestock and treasure. None of the sacrifices made to the gods worked to pacify the creature, until a Seer came into the village one night. Terrified upon what she envisioned, the Seer rushed to Björn Bloodbone to tell him what needed to be done. It seemed that the land was an entity of its own, and only a warrior who had walked with the gods could slay the atrocious creature that was Iki-Bin Onsekiz.

Now, the villagers had heard of the conquests of Col Drogo. They had hoped he would be the one to set them free from this creature. On hearing this, Col Drogo smiled like a Cheshire cat. His ego hung over him like a mocha coloured bat. He agreed to slay the creature at once.
It was decided that they would set a trap for Iki-Bin Onsekiz. Col Drogo was asked to sleep in a room filled with some of the village’s treasure, in the hope that the creature would appear at night and that would be the moment that Col Drogo would slay it. Nobody was quite sure how, but they had confidence in the warrior’s abilities.

And so, they carried out the plan, and sure as death, Iki-Bin Onsekiz came that night. Only this time, there were no villagers; no alehouses; just the warrior and chests full of treasure. This time, however, the warrior was prepared. He had one hand on Hellscream the whole time. As Iki-Bin Onsekiz quaked and rumbled to devour the warrior, he struck the scythe in the earth and the land let out a fiery glow. A spike grew out of the land quickly, reaching for the warrior’s chest, but the warrior evaded it just in time. Iki-Bin Onsekiz was playing dirty, and the warrior was pissed.

But the battle was on. The battle lasted a whole of 12 days, the first of which was the longest day in the history of days. Iki-Bin Onsekiz would open its mouth and creatures would come flying out to battle Col Drogo.

On the first day, it threw up a minotaur, which Col Drogo duly slayed and kept its head on a spike as a warning. But Iki-Bin Onsekiz was not one to back down.

The second day was so short, it was almost non-existent.

On the third day, Col Drogo had to slay a giant wolf, with the eyes of the devil, which, again, he duly butchered and kept the skin as a souvenir.

On the fourth day, the warrior fought against a cannibalistic Viking that was intent on devouring the homuncular warrior. Again, Col Drogo prevailed.

On the fifth day, Iki-Bin Onsekiz threw up a fire giant that made Björn Bloodbone look like a mouse. The giant started breathing down literal hellfire on Col Drogo and even burned the skin off his scythe wielding arm. Col Drogo was brought to his knees, but the warrior was smart. Feigning defeat, he lured the giant into a lake, rendering the monster powerless and defeated. The battle was so long, it swallowed up the entirety of the sixth day.

On the seventh day, Col Drogo was faced with a flying swarm of tiny little bloodsucking trolls. What in the crystal meth is this shit, Col Drogo thought to himself. They bit him everywhere and attacked only in the dead of the night when it was difficult to see the swarms. But Col Drogo had another weapon. He consumed the mushrooms that turned him into a Berserker. A demoniacal frenzy suddenly took him, and one by one, the trolls were slain and fell like scales from a snake.

On the eight day, Col Drogo had to face a Kraken while bathing in the lake. The creature caught him unawares, but Hellscream was forged for this exact purpose. On being attacked, Hellscream grew white hot and flew into the hands of the warrior. In one sizzling motion, the warrior defeated the Kraken. By now, the villagers were rejoicing. Iki-Bin Onsekiz had thrown up the most fearsome creatures anyone on Midgard had seen and Col Drogo had slain them all. But it was still not over.

On the ninth day, Iki-Bin Onsekiz threw up nothing but flames of anger while the warrior rested easy on the skin of the giant wolf he had slain earlier.

On the tenth day, Iki-Bin Onsekiz was tired. It had hoped to catch the warrior unawares and devour him, but the warrior rested near the lake and jumped in, at the faintest of earthquakes.

Iki-Bin Onsekiz was now incensed. It decided that it would have no more of this. So, on the eleventh day, amid violent earthquakes, Iki-Bin Onsekiz physically arrived on Midgard. This was it. Iki-Bin Onsekiz looked like the product of a Cyclops and a Chupacabra having angry unprotected sex. It stood as tall as a mountain, and with every step it took, the earth trembled.

Iki-Bin Onsekiz shouted that it was the warrior that had slain its children and now, it would annihilate the warrior. The warrior, who now felt the slightest tinge of fear, pulled a Shaggy and proclaimed, “It wasn’t me”.

But Iki-Bin Onsekiz was having none of it. It beat its chest and, on all fours rushed towards the warrior. The creature was so huge, that Col Drogo could not dodge it even if he tried. Col Drogo knew he needed something more to defeat this creature. So, he consumed more of the mushrooms, which now made him snake-fuckingly crazy. The warrior slashed away at Iki-Bin Onsekiz, but to no avail. The creature let out a chuckle that sounded more like thunder. But the Vikings kept chanting Col Drogo’s name. He was delirious now. He could smell victory.

Col Drogo jumped on the creature’s neck and stuck Hellscream into it, but it wouldn’t penetrate. Iki-Bin Onsekiz now thundered and threw itself to the ground with such a force that Col Drogo was thrown away from the creature. The fall hurt less than the defeat, which was like a knee to the emotional nutsack for the warrior. Iki-Bin Onsekiz’s arm now turned into a spike. As Col Drogo laid on the ground with Hellscream thrown a mile away from him, Iki-Bin Onsekiz pierced the warrior with the spike. It ripped a hole in the warrior through which you could see tiny angels weeping.

As Col Drogo lay there, bleeding, all he could utter were three words – “That shit hurted”.

Iki-Bin Onsekiz was the judge, the jury, and now the executioner. Col Drogo was slain. Destiny is all.

Starcast:

Iki-Bin Onsekiz – Turkish for “Two Thousand Eighteen”.

In A Gadda Da Meata

The Gods told Col Drogo he could be anything. So he became hungover. He was good at that. Well, that, and slaying every colossal, inhumane piece of monstrosity he ever encountered. He pissed off a lot of people along the way. But one particular being was particularly pissed at the fact that the homuncular warrior could slay every monster that crawled out of his dark, fiery abode. It was Hades, the God of the Underworld and ruler over the domain of the dead.

“My neck, my back, this warrior’s dick-loafed face I shall smack!”, Hades roared. He was a poet and he didn’t even know it. But Hades had had enough. He decided he would make an army. An army of a creature so vicious that the warrior would quake in his boots at the sight of them.

Meanwhile, three and a half worlds away, Col Drogo moseyed on with a stomach that burned harder than an effigy of logic and reason at a pro-Trump rally. “Despite the cost of living has anyone noticed how popular it remains?”, the warrior wondered as he wandered around searching for something, anything that could dull the pain of the hangover that he now labelled, ‘Captain Morgan’s Revenge’. As the warrior fought through the pain of the brushfire in his stomach and the trauma of the Alchzeimer’s, his labored breathing marked the air in white bursts. This cannot go on much longer, the warrior thought to himself.

Meat! Meat will slay this ungodly hangover, thought Col Drogo. And so, the warrior decided to make his way to the only place that he knew would carry courteous amounts of the antidote for the terror that rose in his chest because of Captain Morgan’s Revenge. The armory that the Gods had quite fittingly nicknamed the ‘Cold Storage’.

The homuncular warrior travelled through disenchanted forests and voyaged through wine dark seas riddled with towering waves to reach the land of Koelkamer, the Gods’ Cold Storage. This was it. It was a long journey of precisely 27 words, but the warrior had arrived. The warrior was terribly hungover and felt lower than Peter Dinklage’s nutsack, but one bite of the antidote and Col Drogo would be born anew; ready to take on the world for another episode of “I’m Never Drinking Again: Never Say Never”.

As the sun nestled on the horizon, Col Drogo made his way into the armory. “Oh, my wow. Oh, my wow! It’s glorious!”, the warrior exclaimed. It was literally any warrior’s wet dream. Pork ribs, chicken nuggets, pork belly cuts, racks of lamb, sirloin steaks; the armory had it all. As the warrior proceeded to swipe right on the pork products and sweep them into his grocery cart, a spine-chilling shriek came eerily through the night air. Col Drogo felt a tingling sensation in his elderberries. Something was wrong.

The warrior abandoned his grocery cart and made his way to the barbeque sauce laden gates of the armory. What he saw next made him quake in his boots. Out of the shadows emerged a creature. A beastly creature with feverish eyes and pale skin, straight from the caves of hell. As Col Drogo took a step back, the creature stumbled and staggered towards him. But it wasn’t alone. The creature teetered towards the warrior and in the blink of an eye, an army of zombies lumbered out of the shadows. “Holy fucking shitballs!”, the warrior screamed as he ran back into the armory.

“Odin, I do not know what to do here. Give me a sign. Maybe make some of these damned creatures drop dead if I should head out and kick their ass. You know, just a couple or sixteen, if I should venture out. Any miracle-related stuff at all would be great…… Or nothing. Nothing works too.”

Col Drogo decided he would take a shot in the dark, literally. So he headed out of the armory, his scythe of annihilation, Hellscream in hand. But before he could wield his scythe, two of the zombies lunged at him. Their rotting, decaying flesh smelled curiously like a kale smoothie and under their breath, they cried one sentence repeatedly – “Meat is murder”. It was like Hades had cloned the zombie version of Lil Pump into hundreds, and all they could sing was the vegan version of Gucci Gang. Truly horrifying.

As one of them tilted its head and dug its teeth that looked like a line of broken tombstones into his arm, the other zombie tried shoving a very strong opinion down the warrior’s throat. Col Drogo couldn’t take it anymore. He hit one of them with his elbow and tore open the other’s skull with his bare hands.

Seeing the other zombie struggling to get back to its feet, the warrior raced back to the armory.

“This is an armory, goddamnit. There’s gotta be something in here to annihilate these cursed creatures!”. That’s when it hit him. These were vegan zombies. And this was an armory filled with meat. “Yasss biiishhh!”, the warrior exclaimed as he grabbed a rack of pork ribs in one hand, and a sirloin steak in the other. Although he loved the cuts of pork and beef like the daughter he always wanted but was afraid to buy online, Col Drogo was out of options.

But there was an army outside. And he was just one warrior. Is this destined to be a fight, or a death sentence, he wondered. But sometimes life is like the 7th season of Supernatural; you gotta push through and hope there’s better things ahead, the warrior reasoned, as he burst through the door, succulent pieces of meat in hand.

As the moon glinted evilly through the dark, the warrior charged at the vegan zombies. Nothing could stop him now. As the meat made contact with the arctic-white skin of the zombies, there was a smell of burning flesh in the air. The warrior was on a rampage. But there were literally hundreds of these infernal creatures. Slaying even twenty of them was as pointless as a one inch dildo. The warrior labored and labored through the rampage, but he was running on fumes. There is no escape from destiny.

As the warrior fell to his knees trying to slay the hundreds of zombies, there was a flash of light and the smell of harissa flavored pork belly in the air. The warrior was blinded and he fell to the ground. If death would come now, it would be a sweet release. “Come, demons, bring me home”, the warrior heaved.

But it wasn’t death. It was Imbiss, the goddess of carnivores, and the flash of light was the goddess vanquishing the dastardly zombies. It turns out, the warrior did have some friends up there after all. When the warrior came to his senses, it was daytime and his hangover was gone.

“Come with me, Col Drogo”, the goddess whispered.

“Where to?”, the warrior enquired.

“Yum town. Population: Col Drogo”.

What A Föredrag

Col Drogo checked his pockets; phone, keys, wallet, crushing weight of existence. The warrior hadn’t forgotten anything in the town of Bastian except about 388 brain cells. And so, he continued on his quest. The quest that the Gods had sent him on. The quest to get shitfaced.

Whoever has my voodoo doll, can you please soak it in a barrel of Jägermeister, he prayed, as he walked, weary and still a little groggy from the tumultuous week he’d had. So far, he had been aided in his quest by the whispers and murmurs of gods and men who mumbled to him the strangest stories about the strongest nectars of the Gods. Lately, however, a stony silence had ensued. Maybe it was because the warrior carried with him a Parkinson’s Hangover. Or maybe it was because death was a naked sword and it always lay waiting on his shoulder. Whatever it was, the Gods had abandoned him. The warrior was on his own. But he wasn’t worrying. He was born with the word ‘calmasutra’ tattooed on the nape of his neck. Things had always worked out for him.

And so he walked, and he walked. He passed villages, cities, empires even. But a cloud of unhappy hour hung over them all. They were all drier than a camel’s asshole in a sandstorm. The warrior, however, burned with a passion for reaching the state of White Girl Drunk. Nothing could stop him. But that’s not what the prophecy foretold.

As the warrior proceeded on his path, a lustrous lamp chucked on the edge of the trail caught his eye. Intrigued, the warrior picked up the lamp. The inscription on the lamp was reminiscent of the writing on the walls of the city of Beschäftigung. Perennially broke, Col Drogo thought the lamp would fetch a good price in another land. Worst case scenario, he could atleast buy some salted pork to sustain himself. So the warrior picked up the lamp and rubbed it with a piece of sheepskin he used to clean Hellscream, the scythe of annihilation. He had hardly given the lamp one good rub when the lamp burst into a white flame. Taken aback, the warrior let go of the lamp and stood, bewildered.

From this smokeless white fire, emerged a genie. And not the Robin Williams kind. Col Drogo had heard legends of creatures dwelling in inanimate objects coming from an unseen world in dimensions beyond the visible universe of humans. This was his lucky day, he thought. If the genie was anything like the legends he’d heard, the genie could probably hook him up with apocalyptic amounts of giggle juice.

Delighted, he laid one hand on Hellscream and with one terrific sweep, the flame cleared. The genie stood; a devil with dead eyes and a shark smile. The genie had the form of a man divided down the middle, with one half completely missing. It also had the tail of a rattlesnake and a cloven hoof.

“I am Föredrag, son of Måndag. To what do I owe this horror?”, roared the genie.

“Well hello, Föredrag, son of Måndag. I’m Col Drogo, son of a bitch. Got any giggle juice on ya, Föreskin?”

Ignoring the impudence of the warrior, the genie, Föredrag went on to narrate the story of his creation. Least interested, the homuncular warrior zoned out and proceeded to sheathe his blade. As he put Hellscream back, he noticed a soft glow emanating from the genie, Föredrag. Everything encompassed by the glow radiating from the genie seemed to slow down – the leaves rustled in slo-mo and the bugs slowed down as if they were approaching a pothole in Mumbai.

Curious, the warrior shook his head vigorously and zoned back into the conversation. This time, however, nothing the genie said seemed to make sense.

“His palms were sweaty, knees weak arms were heavy, there’s vomit on his sweater already, mom’s spaghetti”, the genie continued, as the radius of his glow seemed to increase. Col Drogo didn’t have time for this. He was on a quest, damnit. The warrior turned to continue on his journey, but it was too late. The white hot glow emanating from Föredrag had covered half of the warrior by the time he had zoned out, leaving him incapable of making a swift exit from this godforsaken conversation. That’s when he realized. He had heard the word, Måndag before. Mortals all over the floating rock of Midgard cowered in front of the great Måndag after long nights of Charlie Sheen weekends.

“I’ve had it with these motherfuckin’ snakes on this motherfuckin’ plane!”, the warrior yelled and placed one hand on Hellscream. But it was too late. Föredrag’s power had reached the sheath of the scythe of annihilation. Unable to reach his weapon, Col Drogo realized he was stuck between a sober rock and a hard place. What were his choices? Time seemed slow down to a crawl with the genie. He could slay Föredrag with one strike of his weapon, but unsheathing it would take another lifetime; a lifetime he did not have. And to top it all, he was as sober as the rock he was stuck between. The horror!

The warrior, devoid of sleep and unable to Bourbonate, realized he had no option but to let the genie and his power swallow him whole. Maybe this way he could even leave the world a little less uglier than he had found it.

Just when the warrior was on the brink of giving in, the sun started shining. Col Drogo looked up at the sky. It was blue; just as blue as Föredrag’s face would turn as he strangled him to death in his head. As Föredrag crept closer, spitting fire and ready to devour the warrior, a shimmer caught the eye of the warrior. There was a lake, twelve paces to the warrior’s left. Maybe he could swim away from this godforsaken genie. In a desperate attempt to save himself, Col Drogo started crawling towards the shimmer. He’d drown the genie and himself if he had to, but he had to get away from this conversation. The warrior crawled, and he crawled, and the genie went on and on. The lake was two paces away now, but so was Föredrag. This was it. This was how he’d die.

But Col Drogo was within touching distance of the lake. The sunlight shone bright on the lake and Col Drogo realized this was no ordinary lake. It smelled like something familiar, almost intoxicating. Col Drogo crept closer and in the palms of his hand, gathered the water of the lake. He smiled. The lake wasn’t filled with water. It was filled with giggle juice. Prime, golden giggle juice straight outta the magical land of Jack Daniel’s. At least he wasn’t dying sober. The warrior frantically chugged copious amounts of the nectar of the Gods. In no time, Col Drogo regained sensation in his limbs. Was he free? Föredrag was still going on and on, but on seeing the warrior chug the liquid, seemed to recoil in horror.

The genie, intent on remaining sober, started to withdraw, but Col Drogo was too busy to notice. This was his 8th shot. He was getting turnt. Col Drogo was safe, but he wouldn’t stop drinking. Sunlight had gifted him this. He was convinced that this was a gift from the Gods.

And so, Föredrag, son of Måndag was defeated. But so was the warrior’s liver. The warrior blacked out, but he lived to die another day. With a Parkinson’s hangover, that is.

Starcast:

Föredrag – Swedish for ‘lectures’
Måndag – Swedish for ‘Monday’
Beschäftigung – German for ‘employment’

Freaky Traffiki

I just wish Medusa would stop objectifying people, thought Col Drogo to himself as he meditated. Or atleast tried to. Col Drogo wasn’t the kind of person who liked to meditate. But this was a dire situation.

The Polynesian Pearl Diver. Barrels of rum mixed with spices and honey butter; a sip of which would render even the angriest bull at peace. The gods would gather every two weeks and come down to Midgard just to taste this nectar so pure. In fact, they wouldn’t even come down to Midgard if it wasn’t for the Polynesian Pearl Diver. The voodoo doll of the homuncular warrior, however, was stuck in Midgard for all eternity, which the warrior didn’t mind. What he did mind and resent was that the gentleman’s amount of the Polynesian Pearl Diver made in Midgard was saved for the gods, and the rest was gulped down by the priests and priestesses quicker than you could say “douchenozzle”. Which they were.

Col Drogo was livin la vida broka, but he just HAD to have the Polynesian Pearl Diver. But the PPD was the blessed among all the nectars of the gods, and only the gods had access to the Polynesian Pearl Diver. Lucky for the warrior, he had walked with the gods in his youth and he knew just the way to get a hold of the cocktail most pure. As he sat meditating, he prayed to the gods, “I am a sinner in the hands of the angry gods, Polynesian Pearl Diver, full of rum, blessed are you among cocktails, pray for me now and at the hour of my death, which I hope is after I have tasted the nirvana you bring. Amen.”

Suddenly the earth turned deathly quiet. A stony silence spread all over the land and the skies were hidden by mist as the ground was clouded by a chilly fog. In the mist, a being started to form. Wary, Col Drogo laid one hand on his scythe, but as he heard the voice of the being, he let go of his weapon and knelt on the ground. The god of music, Israel Kamakawiwoʻole appeared from the mist. “Somewhere over the rainbow, bluebirds fly. And the dreams that you dream of, dreams really do come true”, he sang and disappeared into the mist. This was it. The warrior knew exactly where to go. But there was no way Col Drogo could reach his destination by journeying through the land of fire where everything glowed and burned. The map to the land of the PPD, however, wasn’t just what the god of music had given him. Kamakawiwoʻole also left him his trusted steed, the 1967 Chevy Impala.

And so Col Drogo set out on his adventure, ready to taste the nectar that would take him to blotto town; population: Col Drogo. But the gods guarded their secrets fiercely. Just as the gates of Hell were guarded by Cerberus, the town of Bastian, where the priests and priestesses made the Polynesian Pearl Diver was guarded by a terrifying creature; one that not even the wildest minds could imagine existed.

As Col Drogo neared the town of Bastian in the bitchin’ Impala, the land was suddenly engulfed by a black smoke for a second which forced him to bring the Impala to a stop. As he alighted from the vehicle of the gods, there was a spray and spurt of crimson in the sunlight. Something or someone didn’t want the pint sized warrior to reach Bastian. The warrior laid one hand on his scythe, but the black smoke once again engulfed the land. Not sure how to attack this menace, Col Drogo got back in the Impala. The creature chose this moment to present itself to the warrior. The creature had lizardly dark eyes and a chest the size of a wardrobe. It went by the name of Alaizdiham Almururiu and it wasn’t pretty. If it was a movie, it’d be called “Scrotal Recall”, that’s what it looked like.

“You seem to be in a hurry, but the road ahead is paved with… well…. It isn’t paved. From whence you came, you shall return then, lil warrior”.

“Thanks for the update, but how about you eat a bag of dicks, Al”.

“Al?”, the creature asked. “Al Jazeera!”, the warrior yelled as he leaped at Alaizdiham Almururiu, scythe in hand. But the dirt kicked up by the creature choked his throat. Alaizdiham Almururiu severed its upper torso and multiplied into hundreds, surrounding the warrior. Col Drogo realized he needed to get back to the Impala if he wanted to make it out of this alive. He made his way to the Impala, but the literal one man army of the creature surrounded the Impala and started beating down on it. Alaizdiham Almururiu was, in all essence, a large diameter dickhole, thought Col Drogo to himself as he searched frantically for something, anything that could repel the monster.

As the Impala started getting crushed by the creature, an emerald studded dagger caught Col Drogo’s eye. Could he use this to slay the menacing creature? It was worth a shot, he thought. When the creature’s clones started piercing the sides of the Impala, with a heavy heart, the warrior broke through the Impala and sprinted across from the creature. As the warrior darted towards Bastian, Alaizdiham Almururiu caught up to him. But the warrior had the emerald studded dagger in hand. As the creature caught up to him and slipped a megawatt grin, the warrior brandished the dagger. Alaizdiham Almururiu was horrified. It couldn’t bear the sight of the color green, much less a dagger studded with emerald. Seeing the terror on the creature’s face, Col Drogo stuck the dagger in the belly of the creature and twisted it, you know, just to be sure. The creature slumped, and its breath extinguished with one final flicker. The warrior had won.

As the warrior then made his way across the fiery land, he gave thanks to the god Israel Kamakawiwoʻole, who once again appeared, singing the Steve Aoki remix of “Pursuit of Happiness”. Col Drogo slipped his own megawatt grin and made his way to Bastian.

“You look like hell”, said the bartender at Bastian, handing the warrior a Polynesian Pearl Diver. “Thanks, I just got back”, said Col Drogo, as he sipped on the cocktail most pure, leaving him both, shaken and stirred.

And that is the story of the author’s harrowing experience in traffic to reach the restaurant, Bastian.

Starcast: Alaizdiham Almururiu – Arabic for ‘traffic jam’

Not Afreyjd

The quest for the lunatic soup (read: alcohol) that rests on the mountain of potency was one that was draining, even for a warrior like Col Drogo. But every noble course is, and will be, a crown of thorns. The warrior’s stomach felt like it needed an exorcism to get rid of whatever entity was causing his intestines to twist violently. His head felt like a bag of smashed assholes, pardon my French. The kamikazes were a good idea he thought. Little did he know that it would taste a lot like he’d be texting her later. And to end it all with a shot of the Green Fairy. He done fucked up.

The warrior needed a place to sleep. The hangover wasn’t going to fade away anytime soon. The sky was on fire that day, and as the warrior made his way through the deathly quiet forest, he realized he was holding in a McVomit. But the warrior wouldn’t have to suffer for long. As he passed the edge of the forest, he could see huts starting to form. This was it. He was entering the village of Upendo Umekufa. Finally, a place where the warrior could rest in peace. Or so he thought.

The village of Upendo Umekufa was no ordinary village, in the sense that each and every person residing in the village was happy. Suspiciously happy, even. It was like the people in the village were breathing a cloud of unicorn orgasm. Had the villagers been smoking some of that married iguanas, Col Drogo wondered. Not one to give two shits about the situation, Col Drogo went about his business and finally found a place to sleep in a barn in the village. The warrior laid down his scythe and allowed sleep to unhinge her jaw and swallow him whole.

When the warrior awakened the next morning, he laid one hand to his right, but he found nothing. He turned to his left, and still groggy in his sleep, searched for his weapon. It was gone. Someone had stolen Hellscream the Worldbreaker. The warrior rose to his feet and let out a thunderous roar. Col Drogo stormed into the village, screaming, “Who dares steal my weapon! Show yourself and I shan’t rip your guts out and strangle you to death with it!” Naturally, no one came forward. The warrior may have been pint-sized but make no mistake, in this condition, not even Ares, the Greek god of war would have crossed Col Drogo.

Seeing that no one would come forward, Col Drogo grabbed the neck of the owner of the barn where he’d slept. Terrified, the villager said he would tell him everything if he spared his life. The barn owner took the warrior to the tavern to calm his nerves. As the warrior and the villager received their LIITs, the barn owner started telling the warrior who stole his weapon and why.

The villagers of Upendo Umekufa worshipped Freyja, the Norse goddess of love. Every year, the villagers would sacrifice a majestic wolf and with it, a glorious weapon to the goddess, so that every single person in the village would find themselves in love all year round. This year, however, the villagers struggled to find a weapon; that is until a certain homuncular warrior made his way to the village. The village folk thought that the arrival of Col Drogo was a sign from the gods and proceeded to spike his water with the valerian root, knocking him out for the rest of the night so that they could steal the scythe of annihilation, Hellscream.

But as the barn owner went about with his story, Col Drogo could hear the beating of drums outside. In the time that it took the villager to explain the village’s story to him, the tavern had emptied. Col Drogo was being tricked. The LIIT made him a little slow, but the warrior rushed outside to find the whole village swaying to the beat of drums. The villagers were gathered around a monster of a wolf, but the warrior’s scythe rested on the Herculean wolf. But as the warrior approached the sacrificial wolf, a cyclone started to form. The villagers continued swaying to the drums, almost like they were in a trance.

Just then, a woman appeared out of the cyclone. The woman appeared to be dressed in nothing but gold and on her neck was a wondrous necklace that looked like it had been fashioned by dwarves. But to Col Drogo, the goddess was just a regular degular schmegular girl. The warrior proceeded to shove the priests and priestesses that stood between him and Hellscream, as they chanted, “Bismillah, we will not let you go!”. But as he reached the sacrificial wolf, the beating of the drums stopped, and he was face to face with the goddess, Freyja. The warrior stood unfazed and as he laid one hand on his scythe, scores of villagers parkoured towards him, ready to kick his ass. But this wasn’t the warrior’s first fight; he effortlessly fought off the 69 devils with dead eyes. The goddess wasn’t the least bit pleased, but Col Drogo looked like he would massacre the whole village, just for his weapon.

So, the goddess decided that she would allow the homuncular warrior to leave with Hellscream. But Freyja was not only the goddess of love but also a powerful sorceress. And so, before the warrior could take the scythe, she lifted the weapon and cursed the warrior with her own blood. As long as Col Drogo would fight with Hellscream, any and every woman he loved would fall for anyone but him. And so, the warrior would be, for all eternity, single in the womb and single till the tomb.

And that, is the story of the author’s personal life.

Starcast: Upendo Umekufa – Swahili for ‘love is dead’

For Fox Sake

Rapture erupted from the town of Beschäftigung as the land celebrated the birthday of the injured emperor. Ingenieurwissenschaft had come within moments of death, but today the town celebrated the day of his birth. As the town celebrated, a guard resting on a high tower near the walls of the city heard a rumbling. Dismissing it as nothing but the furor of the town’s celebrations, the guard got back to sipping from his makeshift hip flask.

The town of Beschäftigung was situated in a strange land. It was as if the town was blessed, since it was surrounded by a vast, barren wasteland of nothingness where the great winter lasted all year long; a wasteland that was home to giants and witches and ghouls and demons. The town itself prospered, but no one dared wander into the uninhabitable wasteland, which was why the town had high and fortified walls etched with spells of magic to keep the wretched creatures away.

As the town celebrated, deep in the wasteland a homuncular being broke through the earth’s crust, ascending from hell. Or at least that’s what it felt like for Col Drogo, the diminutive warrior who was on the brink of death after the victory against the despot, Ingenieurwissenschaft. You see, as the acolytes were attacking the warrior, a fair maiden who looked eerily like Hamingja, the Norse female guardian angel, slipped him a liquid that looked like gold. However, all that glitters isn’t always gold. Sometimes it’s beer. And it was the beer that helped Col Drogo snatch life from the menacing jaws of death.

As the warrior limped across the frigid wasteland, wild beasts grunted and stalked what look like an easy meal. Col Drogo was tired. “I could really go for a Jagerbomb…. a sense of purpose…… maybe $50,000”, he thought to himself. As he stood in the Siberian winter, his legs were bleeding from the thousand cuts. He knew he had to find shelter and quick. Between the piercing cold and the deathly demons on the prowl, the warrior couldn’t afford to be exposed for too long.

As he walked further, the land rose from the plain into high mountains and the rocky slopes of the valleys pressed menacingly on either side. Col Drogo decided he would take shelter in the hills. Though weakened by the battle, the warrior was still strong enough to fashion a shelter from the rock with his scythe. As the region descended into choking darkness, Col Drogo settled into the shelter, a space just large enough to accommodate the pint-sized warrior. As he laid down his scythe, Col Drogo nestled into the cave and waited for sleep to unhinge her jaw and swallow him whole.

As the warrior laid to rest, comfortable in his haven, he noticed little flames dancing around the edge of the cave, which was a welcome respite from the biting cold outside. The warrior fell into a long overdue slumber, but Col Drogo had a tingling sensation in his elderberries. He was not alone. Just then, he heard something clawing the stone. By this point, Col Drogo was hanging on a squeezehole. He had one fuck to give, but in the Siberian winter, even that was gone. The warrior mustered the energy to stand up and laid one hand on his scythe. “Show yourself, vile creature. Let my scythe slake its bloodlust on your rotten body!” he roared.

A terrifying creature emerged from the blackness. The creature was giant and had human shape, but was covered with shimmering, shining skin, like that of a scorpion. Men would shrivel with her gaze and to behold her was death. Her teeth burned like coals of fire and every time the giantess opened her mouth, heat like a furnace blasted out before her. Col Drogo looked like a snack; he always did. On most days that was a good thing. But today, the giantess was hungry. The warrior would make for a fine meal she thought. Col Drogo meanwhile, longed for warmth.

“Who dares to steal my fire?” the giantess thundered, as long flames darted from her burning teeth. Col Drogo knew he stood no chance in this fight. He also knew that no guardian angel would save him this time. But the warrior had the cunning of a fox and the confidence of a horny Indian man. Col Drogo was slim and swift; the giantess was anything but. Knowing this, in a split second, the warrior darted across the cave and rolled a huge boulder across the entrance.

“Let us be friends. Pull the rock aside and you may sleep in my home today, safe from the Fimbulwinter”, said the giantess. Just what the warrior wanted. The warrior moved the rock, making a small gap at the entrance. At once the giantess tried pushing her head through, but it did not fit. “This is not wide enough. Push the boulder further aside, lest you die from the piercing cold.”
“Oak nuggins”, he called. As the giantess heard the warrior push the boulder aside, she drew in a deep breath and thrust her head forward, ready to open her mouth and barbeque the warrior. A fatal mistake. As the giantess fit her head through the gap, Col Drogo rolled the rock forward and crushed the flaming creature’s head like a Voldemort Horcrux. The giantess’s flaming teeth spluttered in the cold, but they were still fiery enough to keep the warrior warm through the night.

Col Drogo faced many adversaries in his travels, but none troubled him more than the steroidal Charizard of the cave. Come to think of it, it’s kinda like how my maid is always troubling me by switching the fan off while I sleep. Spoiler alert: she’s a massive fan of gutkha. But that’s neither here nor there. Or is it?