common position we came to discover as the party progressed—he was in a pile of vomit and blocking the door to Robin’s condo.
“If he tried to kill you, he’d only pull it off by tripping and falling on you. Making the huge assumption the asshole was ever upright long enough, a minute or so out of the day, to fall on anything. But if he did, you’d smother under all that mass of muscle gone to flab. I guess Odin cut off his supply of godly steroids.” I looked up at a flock of crows, blackbirds, I couldn’t tell. They were shadowy sketches flying overhead between my line of sight and the lit up windows. Their cries were as harsh as metal against metal. They reminded me of who came next in the story.
“And then there was the other one . . . you don’t want to fuck with that one,” I warned. I had, that went without saying, but he’d started it and for once that was the truth. As a rule, if you weren’t me, a mix of overconfidence and attitude to spare, you didn’t want to cross him.
No, you did not.
Loki,
God
of Chaos and Mischief—and use the proper title, I was informed, when speaking to a god the likes of him. He did add that it should be unquestionably evident that there were no gods the likes of him—I felt the floor shake slightly as he said that and he was the epicenter.
“Loud and clear, no gods like you. I got it.” Blah blah blah. My hand was hovering in midair anyway, so I used it to give him a thumbs-up on his MVG, Most Valuable God, status. Number one fan. BFF. Getting on to more important issues. “Congrats. Now could I just get past—”
“You could show the proper groveling respect especially when you are nothing but a disgusting puddle of goat semen same as all Auphe.” The explosion of verbal abuse interrupted me midsentence as he continued talking over me with a detached tone, unhurried pace, and disciplined words formed for the same purpose as bullets, to wound or kill.
“You.”
He said it as if it were the highest insult conceivable, the others cotton-candy, sticky-sweet next to it. “You are also a pile of squirming maggots that feed on feces and rotting flesh, an intestinal parasite alive solely due to the same essence of life you steal and siphon from the soft innards of others. Worthy of nothing was my kind, save the most agonizing of deaths his limitless imagination could weave.”
The guy was wordy.
Detailed, too.
As I’d been reaching past him—plenty of room, didn’t crowd him or anything—to tap a server with a tray of the best gourmet sliced sausage on the face of the earth, I thought that was one helluva overreaction. And not to mention—no, let’s mention it—my hand was getting tired as it hung in the air, dodging back and forth to get to the tray while he blocked me each time. Seemingly without moving. Impressive—if you weren’t as hungry as I was. In that case, it was irritating as hell and nothing more.
“Okay then, soft innards. I’ll keep that in mind. I sound like a pretty nasty guy. Thanks for the enlightenment. I’m a better person for it. Owe it all to you,” I said with as an insincere and wickedly angled slide of my lips to show all my teeth as I could manage . . . and then a few more. “Now, moving on. Loco, you are wiener blocking me in the worst way.”
“I am
Loki
,
God
of Ch—”
I tuned him out. Use his proper title, he insisted? I didn’t know the guy by sight. How would I know his name or his title? Robin might party with gods on the regular, but I didn’t, and that meant I didn’t know him from Adam—yeah, I knew that was a Sleipnir of a different color, but the point held true. This guy could’ve had his own Facebook page—did they still have those? If they did, his face could’ve been plastered over every inch of it, and it wouldn’t have mattered. I wasn’t a thirteen-year-old girl. I wasn’t into social media crap. And if he was, I was humiliated for him.
Relationship status: Turned myself into a
“If he tried to kill you, he’d only pull it off by tripping and falling on you. Making the huge assumption the asshole was ever upright long enough, a minute or so out of the day, to fall on anything. But if he did, you’d smother under all that mass of muscle gone to flab. I guess Odin cut off his supply of godly steroids.” I looked up at a flock of crows, blackbirds, I couldn’t tell. They were shadowy sketches flying overhead between my line of sight and the lit up windows. Their cries were as harsh as metal against metal. They reminded me of who came next in the story.
“And then there was the other one . . . you don’t want to fuck with that one,” I warned. I had, that went without saying, but he’d started it and for once that was the truth. As a rule, if you weren’t me, a mix of overconfidence and attitude to spare, you didn’t want to cross him.
No, you did not.
Loki,
God
of Chaos and Mischief—and use the proper title, I was informed, when speaking to a god the likes of him. He did add that it should be unquestionably evident that there were no gods the likes of him—I felt the floor shake slightly as he said that and he was the epicenter.
“Loud and clear, no gods like you. I got it.” Blah blah blah. My hand was hovering in midair anyway, so I used it to give him a thumbs-up on his MVG, Most Valuable God, status. Number one fan. BFF. Getting on to more important issues. “Congrats. Now could I just get past—”
“You could show the proper groveling respect especially when you are nothing but a disgusting puddle of goat semen same as all Auphe.” The explosion of verbal abuse interrupted me midsentence as he continued talking over me with a detached tone, unhurried pace, and disciplined words formed for the same purpose as bullets, to wound or kill.
“You.”
He said it as if it were the highest insult conceivable, the others cotton-candy, sticky-sweet next to it. “You are also a pile of squirming maggots that feed on feces and rotting flesh, an intestinal parasite alive solely due to the same essence of life you steal and siphon from the soft innards of others. Worthy of nothing was my kind, save the most agonizing of deaths his limitless imagination could weave.”
The guy was wordy.
Detailed, too.
As I’d been reaching past him—plenty of room, didn’t crowd him or anything—to tap a server with a tray of the best gourmet sliced sausage on the face of the earth, I thought that was one helluva overreaction. And not to mention—no, let’s mention it—my hand was getting tired as it hung in the air, dodging back and forth to get to the tray while he blocked me each time. Seemingly without moving. Impressive—if you weren’t as hungry as I was. In that case, it was irritating as hell and nothing more.
“Okay then, soft innards. I’ll keep that in mind. I sound like a pretty nasty guy. Thanks for the enlightenment. I’m a better person for it. Owe it all to you,” I said with as an insincere and wickedly angled slide of my lips to show all my teeth as I could manage . . . and then a few more. “Now, moving on. Loco, you are wiener blocking me in the worst way.”
“I am
Loki
,
God
of Ch—”
I tuned him out. Use his proper title, he insisted? I didn’t know the guy by sight. How would I know his name or his title? Robin might party with gods on the regular, but I didn’t, and that meant I didn’t know him from Adam—yeah, I knew that was a Sleipnir of a different color, but the point held true. This guy could’ve had his own Facebook page—did they still have those? If they did, his face could’ve been plastered over every inch of it, and it wouldn’t have mattered. I wasn’t a thirteen-year-old girl. I wasn’t into social media crap. And if he was, I was humiliated for him.
Relationship status: Turned myself into a
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