Payback Time

The four o’clock revenge-wave from Cimbria rolled in on the cost of Scotland. The canal crossing was influenced by some anxiety in the ranks. The Midgaard worm was annoyed about Ragnar Lodbrog called him ‘Big fat snake’ and as usually it turned into a fistfight that spread like fire among the Godly crowd. When the raven-brothers Hugin and Munin carpet bombed the combatants with guano, escalated the disput and raised a minor hurricane and thunderstorm.
An old shepherd herding his sheep’s was watching the rumbling and lightning in the horizon and mumbled to himself “Oh no… not again – hope they haven’t got that freekin Fenris wolf whit this time…brrr”.
Odin who took the shape of, he always travels incognito, the brave and bold Mogens Blood-axe, and talked to the annoyed shepherd “Hvor finder æ him dersens Onkel Donkel vho vover a pis’ å Valhalla”. The shepherd scratched his fleabites and said “Vaaath”. Loke pushed Odin by side and said “lad mig”. “Oncliach Dumnaillaigh - got a hen to pick with him”. More fleabites-scratching. The lack of language skills and general awareness of the missing sense of direction lead Odin to send out the unpopular ravens to look for Oncliach Dumnaillaigh.
The ravens found OD’s shed (by coincident) and the Revenge battalion marched in turmoil and disarray to the unfinished cross shaped shed that were an inspiration for later church-architects (in some cases their works were completed and the cross shape were more defined)
Elde, Ask og Urd, Fenja and Menja, Læ with wifie Ran, who brought a couple of dead sailors she recently had drowned. Thor and Sif, with the kids - it was almost full strength. Only those who still vomit after the last mjød-party stayed at home. The God-bunch was standing around the unfinished cross shaped shed were OD was hiding under a dog (he didn’t have a finished table to hide under) who slept peaceful despite the noise from the festive crowd, and the freezing cold from the Fenris wolf, outside.
“Onkel Dunkel Dummergøj….kom ut a e bræddeskur….mæ det vons” thunders Odin, ”do har pisset å Valhalla, å nu må do ta’ æe næsestyver å æ kindhest for å vær’ en kæltring”. CoaghCoagh the Ur-Chioaghoaghlaiathaidh Laibraidhghoughr and Mythic Sun-Dog of the Vest wakes up and OD tried to hide under a half finished guitar instead. CoaghCoagh greets Odin with dignity “Whozup Odin-man – OD peed in your pie again”. “Jep” Odin replies “He has to take back that cobbert-fagget thing he said about some friend of mine” Odin looks friendly at the handsome and intelligent CC who says with a sigh. “OD, you must finish your half finished shed and paint it black before springtime to honor our neighbor Gods” CC thinks with a wrinkle between his eyes “ …..and give Susanne The-by-Gods-protected that iron sculpture she likes …or the hole menagerie kicks your ass” . Odin nods his head and says “Bad time ass kicking”. Side by side Odin and CC sits on the unfinished doorstep and enjoy the sundown together in silence. Everybody else except OD, he was fiddling with a half finished fiddle, had a blast of a party.
To be continued some time….God knows when.
Writher’s thoughts: Normally it’s said that you shall not throw stones if you live in a glasshouse, but I think that’s tasteless. It’s friendlier to throw stones IF you live in a glasshouse.
Susanne Dyrholm11. februar 2011 kl. 23:42

Vat??? Did you say Dr Flugelpik???

“Well noughgh noughgh,” said Oncliach Dumnaillaigh until CoaghCoagh the Ur-Chioaghoaghlaiathaidh Laibraidhghoughr and Mythic Sun-Dog of the Vest, “Eigh am chust wondering how the Laedy Sanne and hir GuidJarl, the Estimable but moderately dangerous Mogens the MonoUlnar’d are getting on with the Shed-Klasse LooongenBooote they ordered frae wirsels via the Splinter-Net?”  For, said Oncliach Dumnaillaigh the Wise, the Monosyllabic and Sparing in Conversazione, utilising at this point a figure of speech known to severall as Reported, he was expecting the said persons of the Vikkking persuasion to approach via the Sea of North and make themselves known such that a considerable Bevvy might be taken the one with the other, possibly involving Strong Drinking Practices.

Meaghanwhiles, backck at the LongenBooote, a thousand leagueues away contrary to expectations, Mogens the Many-Armed & Polypedal to booote threoughgh backck the esoteric covers of his four-legged Afternoon Nap Contrivance, the fine felted material falling off his manly body in a cadence of centripedal curves not unlike Snachter affen Van en Dyke.  This the same material handed down for centuries in the splendid family of the Mogens, embroidered as it was with olde-worlde patternes of stitchinge in golden and silvern threadde as well as best Binderer Twine, and tastefully stained with the traditional body fluiddes of many lustyy ancestrallian personauges on all sides of the Blankett.

Mogens the Many-Armed & Polypedal to booote as previously mentioned stretched his persona luxiouriously in the fo’c’sle, banging his head against the stout oaken and chip-board decking, for had he not spent that same morning raiding Dr. Flugelpik’s Prosthetic Klinik amidships, beating off the irate medik with severall of his own technical feats, usually attached to severall of his technical shins?

“Herrimph, Sirre Mogens,” then quothh the Splendid Laedy Sanne, her Beauteous Countenance lighting up the Kabinn, “Whiles you have been kippinger snoeremorgen, Ej hev ben shjarpeninger up de Bottle Ox til it be SkarySchjarp!”

“You mean, ‘Battle Axe’!” replied Mogens the Barely-Dressed.

“Vat!  Are you kollinnk me en mean battle axe?” roared Laedy Sanne the Not at all Pleased, hurling a Mizzen-Mast Mogens-ward but Missingk by Miles and geplunginger de Massive Missile into the Middle of a School of whales disporting themselves nearby.  “That vill learn you to pay attenzione!” sez the Teacher, svimmink off.

General Paralysis of Seafarers

Maenwhiles oever en de lant uff det Vikkkings, werk ver goeingen onne apaece.  Mogens the Hatchetet-Armed assjaembled a mighghty crew of stalled warts, inklueding Rufus the Boeld, starr of maeny a ruff-hoose, Rufus the Redd, Rufus the Off-Koelour, Karlo Uppenhaemmer, Bembo Frjikkenbotty the Gay, Justin Kaiserjarl the Cjentre-Fjorward, Utterlej Maddening Hakkenovski the teenage telephone-pole jumper whose cardigans were ljegendjary, Shagger O’Murphy met his Entourage of Shaggees, these fjormed but a small sjelection of whoresmen and oarsons mjaking up the krew of Mogens the Mighty-Armed.

And so it vas that the daring band bjegan to assjemble the Longen-Boote sjent oever bi ParcellenPostit vrom Skottlant’s misty magical shores in smallish pieces for serf-assjembly, instruktionios non inclusivo and in Chinese languages ONO. Sjeverall smallish skrews ver missink, in order to drive the Vikkkings yet more berserker than ever, speziale vith eau de vie, eau de toiletto njetvithztandinger.

Fjinally the Langenbooete vas raeady.  Out of Ejsberg sailed the proud galley, to shouts of “Hooray!”,  “Awa ya Raj!” and “Funny shaepe fer en booote?”, turned to the West, turned to the North-by- Nor-Nor East, turned to the South…..?????

All oever Europe, there were no lights to go out.

Some months ljater, as the Vikkkings left the smoking ruins of Madagascar behind and the smell of burning cinammon sank sloewly into the horizon, where Mogens the UniBrachial had dumped his cigar, the Laedy Sanne murmurred in a hussxky voice….”Errr, Mogens, oeld chaeppie, doe you think that GPS thingie is werking properly?”

Myxening Their Toeses

Syne saeth Oncliach Dumnaillaigh until CoaghCoagh the Ur-Chioaghoaghlaiathaidh Laibraidhghoughr and Mythic Sun-Dog of the West, “Nowe that alle have dronken thir fill and gorged until naemair may doon gullet be stappit for feare of stamakruptcy, nowe say I lat us turn our thoughoughts  til the Ould Enemy quhat lik untae en Great Meganser flicths abbeen us aa just a-waitin fer ane oppertunioty furti poonce ons whiles sheighaghtain frequent doon skooriform upon wir heids like Brylcreigchm from Heaven. “

“Pass the pigeonios en croute,” sez CoaghCoagh,  “a wedge or twain of widgeon, tranche-du-roi de fromage sauvage de France well-warmed in a sote wench’s cleavauge and she from Noermaendy hersel and y-cleped Kyleagh, a butcher’s brace of saucissons atween hir lilywhite ski-thick thighs for good measure”.  Such were the wise words iambically integrated into articulate strophic speech by the practiced mou of CoaghCoagh the wise, the Ur- Chioaghoaghlaiathaidh Laibraidhghoughr and Mythic Sun-Dog of the West.

“Ahimm, achhimmm,”  then spake up Oncliach Dumnaillaigh, reclining on his great chaise longeur, the famous Chaise de Spleen, marvellously worked by a thousand artisans over centuries of cultured uber-carpentry, carved and re-carved in fanciful designs from the storied past and embroidered with complicated tales very like unto a rabbit’s knitting, inlaid with gold and precious things scavenged from the Sea of Baltic’s wide and icy shores and dribbled on by generations of learned scholars, batchelors-at-armes, rent-a-quines and such like.  (And indeed they do say and aver that the great Chaise was every bit as well patina’d as Oncliach Dumnaillaigh).  Such, then, was the thoughtful utterance of Oncliach Dumnaillaigh at this juncture.

Chioghlaiathaidh Laibraidhghoughr

CoaghCoagh the Ur-Chioaghoaghlaiathaidh Laibraidhghoughr, the mythic Sun-Dog of the West, only the golden fleece of the mighty Western Ram, seven times spun by virgins and conveyed in the Bronze-wheeled chariot of the Volks will he wear next to his sacred pelt that has been three-and-twenty times combed and brushed betwixt sunrise and sunset by Oncliach Dumnaillaigh and that before a supper consisting of sixty-seven new lambs, three oxen and an irritating horse-and-wifie-rider, all eaten to the sound of the ancient songs in iambic pentameter accompanied on the Iron-Framed Moothie of Ould in B Flat Minor.