mare and snap! Bred by Hot Stallion
Location: Straw-filled stall shared with goat. I specifically said no roommates
Update: Bundle o’ interspecies mutant joy on the way!
That was not for me.
I had a life to live and lives to take.
When it came down to it, how the hell did he expect me to know he, the
god
Loki in case anyone missed the multiple “gods” he was throwing around, was real? Half of human documented mythology were lies and the other half a confused snarl of mostly untrue gossip. Robin had said two gods were coming to this thing. I didn’t bother to ask or care which two they were. Niko would’ve, there was no conceivable reality in which he hadn’t, and likely had to resist with everything in him to keep from carving their names in Norse runes a hundred times or so into our walls with his katana. Mythology was his one true love, not mine.
I was there for two entirely different reasons: the food and to hopefully satisfy my dick before it started demanding flowers and dinner before letting me jack it in the shower or my bed or the couch . . . or in Niko’s car as I waited in a parking lot in Jersey while he hauled baskets of heavy-duty dual-function garbage/body disposal bags. It’d been over a month since I’d gotten any and neither of us, my dick or me, were too damn happy about that.
In complete innocence, it did happen—occasionally, I was there for the free food and to, if lucky, get laid. That was what I had in mind, nothing else. Did either of those call for the wrath of a god—a Norse god especially who considered eating and screwing a holy sacrament? Did it make any of this my fault? Deserving of some incredibly long-winded and disgustingly descriptive name calling?
Nope.
As far as I’d known or cared before this cluster fuck had started, he was a random guy, with an unblinking serial killer stare as cold as arctic ice and a face void ofexpression as a blue ribbon prize-winning embalmed corpse. A potentially random tightly controlled sociopath who kept his industrial-sized freezer stocked with well-seasoned, Donner approval stamped, jerky covered skeletons
or
a plausibly random tightly controlled homicidally insane psychotic freak who was one
“thirteen items in a
twelve items lane”
killing spree waiting to happen . . . but, bottom line, just a random guy. That he had the oxygen-sucking, light-devouring black-hole aura of someone who used blood-covered ice picks in his dental hygiene regime was not my problem. I didn’t care. I cared about only one thing.
He had happened to be in the vicinity of my targeted sausage, that’s all.
If I’d known he was a god, and I didn’t, until he opened his mouth, as it wasn’t stamped on his forehead, I’d have guessed Native American or Mayan from the waist-length black hair and the copper tint to his skin, not Norse. I’d always assumed Norse gods would be pale and pasty, bearded, and wearing leather and lice-infested mangy fur. His introduction clarified that misconception for me. It could’ve clarified it considerably faster, but with the threats and insults and repeated reminders making certain I didn’t forget the god part, I was halfway to Alzheimer’s and no memory to speak of before he wound it all up with another repetition of his résumé.
“Right.
Loxley
.” I snapped the fingers of my free hand. “I’m not good with names. Remembering them. Caring about which one goes with which person . . . or god. I’m not good at giving a shit in general. Sorry.” I wasn’t sorry and the disinterest in my voice showed that clearly. “I had no idea who you were. I’m not on Twitter, Tweeter. Whatever that shit is. But keep working at it. I’m sure someone will eventually, no idea, ‘buddy you’? ‘Stalk you’?” I shrugged. “Yeah, I’m not up on the terms of preteen communication. Good for you that you have the free time and no fear of being put on a cyber watch list for possible sexual predators.”
With a
Location: Straw-filled stall shared with goat. I specifically said no roommates
Update: Bundle o’ interspecies mutant joy on the way!
That was not for me.
I had a life to live and lives to take.
When it came down to it, how the hell did he expect me to know he, the
god
Loki in case anyone missed the multiple “gods” he was throwing around, was real? Half of human documented mythology were lies and the other half a confused snarl of mostly untrue gossip. Robin had said two gods were coming to this thing. I didn’t bother to ask or care which two they were. Niko would’ve, there was no conceivable reality in which he hadn’t, and likely had to resist with everything in him to keep from carving their names in Norse runes a hundred times or so into our walls with his katana. Mythology was his one true love, not mine.
I was there for two entirely different reasons: the food and to hopefully satisfy my dick before it started demanding flowers and dinner before letting me jack it in the shower or my bed or the couch . . . or in Niko’s car as I waited in a parking lot in Jersey while he hauled baskets of heavy-duty dual-function garbage/body disposal bags. It’d been over a month since I’d gotten any and neither of us, my dick or me, were too damn happy about that.
In complete innocence, it did happen—occasionally, I was there for the free food and to, if lucky, get laid. That was what I had in mind, nothing else. Did either of those call for the wrath of a god—a Norse god especially who considered eating and screwing a holy sacrament? Did it make any of this my fault? Deserving of some incredibly long-winded and disgustingly descriptive name calling?
Nope.
As far as I’d known or cared before this cluster fuck had started, he was a random guy, with an unblinking serial killer stare as cold as arctic ice and a face void ofexpression as a blue ribbon prize-winning embalmed corpse. A potentially random tightly controlled sociopath who kept his industrial-sized freezer stocked with well-seasoned, Donner approval stamped, jerky covered skeletons
or
a plausibly random tightly controlled homicidally insane psychotic freak who was one
“thirteen items in a
twelve items lane”
killing spree waiting to happen . . . but, bottom line, just a random guy. That he had the oxygen-sucking, light-devouring black-hole aura of someone who used blood-covered ice picks in his dental hygiene regime was not my problem. I didn’t care. I cared about only one thing.
He had happened to be in the vicinity of my targeted sausage, that’s all.
If I’d known he was a god, and I didn’t, until he opened his mouth, as it wasn’t stamped on his forehead, I’d have guessed Native American or Mayan from the waist-length black hair and the copper tint to his skin, not Norse. I’d always assumed Norse gods would be pale and pasty, bearded, and wearing leather and lice-infested mangy fur. His introduction clarified that misconception for me. It could’ve clarified it considerably faster, but with the threats and insults and repeated reminders making certain I didn’t forget the god part, I was halfway to Alzheimer’s and no memory to speak of before he wound it all up with another repetition of his résumé.
“Right.
Loxley
.” I snapped the fingers of my free hand. “I’m not good with names. Remembering them. Caring about which one goes with which person . . . or god. I’m not good at giving a shit in general. Sorry.” I wasn’t sorry and the disinterest in my voice showed that clearly. “I had no idea who you were. I’m not on Twitter, Tweeter. Whatever that shit is. But keep working at it. I’m sure someone will eventually, no idea, ‘buddy you’? ‘Stalk you’?” I shrugged. “Yeah, I’m not up on the terms of preteen communication. Good for you that you have the free time and no fear of being put on a cyber watch list for possible sexual predators.”
With a
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