Vicious Viking

Arinbjörn Nöthnagle rode his winged horse down to the battlefield. The blood was already congealing, and the stench of decay brought a smile to his cruel lips. The ladies were gathering the heroes of the battle, for their endless night in the dining hall of Valhalla. That was the ladies’ job, but Arinbjörn’s task was different. He was here to kick the losers, the weak, the unlucky.

“KAARGH!” he exclaimed, laying boot to the guts of a dead Swede, who had already suffered the indignity of having his head split by an axe.

“Why? Lord of Asgard, why to you torture me?” moaned the fallen warrior. “Did I not fight bravely?”

“You would think you fought bravely, wouldn’t you?” The Nöthnagle barked, laughing his contempt. “You know nothing of the glory that belongs to the truly brave. You fought with fear in your heart!”

“That was adrenaline!”

“FEAR! KAARGH!”

“Oof!”

After he’d spent the morning kicking similar dead wretches of the battle, adding insult to fatality, Arinbjörn took a long draught on his horn of mead.


Frulgjna the Valkyrie descended to the field where he stood.

“Good Arinbjörn Nöthnagle, how is your drink?”

“It tastes like blood, but what doesn’t taste like blood? I love it.”

“You are a cruel God, Arinbjörn. I have often wondered why Odin assigned you such a cruel duty, torturing the less than glorious dead?”

“What Odin? What assignment? I’m just killing time so I don’t have to gather sticks for Baldar’s eternal Pyre!

“Oh.”

“This is how I get my kicks!”

“Oh”

“Get it? Kicks?”

--Dan Kilian
------------------------------------------- The Melancholy Viking
------------------------------------------- Fixing The Banks