To Someone Somewhere
Why not?
Trigor and the Newsman
It had been a slow week for Trigor. There were no World-Dragons attacking the city, engulfing the citizens with blazing hellfire. There were no super geniuses driven mad by their menial existence and forced to build a force of World-Dominating robots. There weren’t even any real robberies or anything perpetrated by the most petty of thieves. Word had apparently gotten out that a giant, muscled Viking King had taken residence in the city, and that it was his sole mission to defeat evil, or whatever he felt like pummeling that day. As such, criminals and rouges alike were quivering with fear. They had heard tales of what he did to The Sampler, how he deftly handled an onslaught of Space Bears without a single drop of sweat beading down from his brow. How with his hands he could channel the very lightning of Thor, and how his golden mane required no comb, no conditioner, that it was naturally a testament to perfection. For a little while various villains challenged Trigor, thinking that the tales were simply the conjuring or bored felons. But when the Viking King’s fists collided with their chins, and their bodies flew directly into the prison, police station, or various onlookers, the reality of the demigod hit home. Trigor had achieved his goal, he had defeated a great deal of villainy and made safe the streets of his fair city. But now he was bored. And as any bored super powered Norse warrior would do, he started to watch TV.
At first he cautiously caroused the stations, pressing the buttons on the remote with great care, not wanting to startle the televison demons he knew to be residing in his TV set. Basic cable sedated his hunger for entertainment for a while. The talk shows about 100 pound 3 year-olds amused him in particular. Watching them struggle to toddle about, their rolls or flesh jiggling with the slightest movement, such programming brought much laughter to the halls of Trigor’s abode. But they soon grew dull. They moved on to other subjects eventually, men dressed as women with fish taped to their genitals and whatnot. It was from these newfound doldrums that Trigor stumbled upon channel 34. He knew not what he was watching at first, his eyes had trouble deciphering the image before them. Soon he called to his aid Bernardo.
“Bernardo! What hath encroached upon my box now?” he cried to his flightless friend.
“News Trigor. This is a news channel quite obviously.”
“Oh. But what does this man have to do with information? His hair is finely kept, indeed rivaling my own. Though subdued, he seems to radiate the very might that one might find in a Viking such as myself. He seems familiar...”
“That’s Thorn Bricklonson. Reporter, host, the player of many a role.”
“Indeed he has played many a role! For if my eagle eyes do not betray me, if they preform not treason, but tell truths, this Thorn Bricklonson is MY Thorn Bricklonson! An ancient acquaintance of mine from eras long past. We shared many a mead glass in the golden halls of Odin, fought many a battle in fields of green, and conquered many a mead-maiden.”Trigor excitedly recited.
“I’m not quite sure if that’s the same guy.”Bernardo stated, trying to subdue the Viking.
“Nonsense. These eyes of mine to me tell no lies. I shall return prior to the evening feast.”
Trigor teleported in his typical fashion, with the stomping of his mighty feet with the power of 12 oxen and a dozen more kangaroos. At the channel 34 news studio, a homely secretary went about her business, organizing stacks of insignificant papers so to place consumables upon her tables. She adjusted her glasses a bit, and spun her chair over the computer. She prepped her fingers, long trained in the arts of pushing keys, but before they could preform their sacred duties, a beam of light filled the room, and a handsome man of flowing hair, manly moustache, polo shirt, and rock-hard abs appeared before her.
“Woman!” he shouted, taking a step forward and pushing his chest forward, “I see audience with Thorn Bricklonson!”
“Do you have an appointment?” she calmly asked, adjusting her hair a bit now, hoping she didn’t have any poppy seeds or other unsightly specs in her teeth.
“Trigor makes appointments with no man, and indeed never a friend as near as Thorn.”
“Well I’m sorry sir, you’ll just have to wait.”
“I wait for no man...”
“I know, but just sit right there and I’ll be right with you.” the woman interrupted, unintimidated by his displays of machismo.
The Viking King dropped his head and plopped down on the nearby chair. Reaching over to the rack of magazines, he began to leaf through a worn copy of Sports Illustrated. The secretary, thinking him to be placated, picked up the phone and called Mr. Bricklonson.
“There’s someone here to see you. He says he’s an old friend or something, long hair, big moustache...” she began.
“This magazine is long past its appropriate reading time!”Trigor bellowed suddenly.
“Excuse me...” the secretary told her boss, “What did you say?” she asked Trigor.
“This magazine tells me stories of Michael Jordan’s exploits, when its well known that he has done nothing worthy of the written word in years! I can’t be distracted with such decrepit printings!”
“They’ll just have to do for now.”
“Trigor: King of Vikings lets no magazine from 1993 do for now!”
“Alright, if you could just...” the secretary struggled.
“Did he say Trigor: King of Vikings?” the voice on the other end of the line proclaimed, “Then by all means send him in!”
“Fine. You deal with him.” his secretary told him, and she pointed to the door.
“I can venture forward now?” Trigor innocently asked.
“Yes. Just leave.”
The Viking King stood up, threw the magazine behind his back, and bounded towards the giant double doors.
“I send a most gracious of thank yous in your direction paper-maiden. If you were not some homely, I would surely offer you a flagon of mead. And perhaps if the seed of the poppy were not imbedded within your teeth.”
Trigor then opened the doors with his Viking might, and immediately his right hand was taken in a grip much akin to that of a full-grown she-bear protecting its cubs. Bones cracked and skin bruised as Trigor squeezed back, and shook his hand up and down vigorously. Looking up, he saw his old friend, whose hand being crushed seemed to not put a damper on his joy in the least.
“Trigor!” Thorn beamed, separating himself from the earth-shattering handshake, “It has been a long time! How have you been?”
“I have been as the moon and the stars old friend, ever constant and still breathing.” Trigor replied.
“You haven’t aged a bit. Of course, neither have I. Comes with the whole job of being a Norse demigod, wouldn’t you say? Hey, can I get you a drink?”
“My tongue does thirst for mead.”
“Oh I remember that stuff. A strong drink it was, that mead. Do you remember that time that Brunglebor drank three barrels of mead, and then jumped into the Baltic Sea?”
“Ah, yes. He was found three months later off the shores of Greenland, his body had a tinge of blue from the cold, but his mind was as sound as ever.”
“Indeed. Anyway, I don’t have any mead though. Bad for the heart. I do have some Aquafina though.”
“That’s fine. I was just being a most polite of guests when I said I was thirsty...” mumbled Trigor, a wave of disappointment crashing against his face.
“So after all these years Trigor, what has it been, 600? What brings you here?” Thorn asked.
“I was enraptured by that televison box, and I saw you on it. Presenting some type of, what do you call it? News?”
“Yep, that’s what I do. I’m actually the lead anchor of this network. Of course, don’t tell anyone else that. Just between you and I. But yeah, you probably caught the 12:30 airing of my show, This, That and Those with Thorn Brickolson.”
“So you’re a keeper of information? Like ‘ol Svensylven, keeping all of the records from hordes of beasts and marauders?”
“Actually, I just read the news and look pretty.”
“But when you’re not on the televison box, you’re still out in the battlefields right?”
“Trigor, it’s been a long time. There aren’t any battlefields anymore. When Odin summoned you back up to Asgard, it was because times had begun to change.”
“I’ve been sent back though...”
“And that’s fantastic. But let’s face it, our days of pillaging and mead are over. Not to say they weren’t a blast and all, but the rest of us have adapted with the times.”
“And what of the old gang? Of Hrogogar? And Umblebum? Hath they become anchors too?”
“Naw. Hrogogar’s an accountant upstate, and Umblebum owns a lawn-care service. We’re not Viking Warriors, we’re simple contributors to society. Some are more simple than others, but it’s all fine and dandy.”
Trigor backed up and waved his finger, his mouth chomping upon itself trying to find words, his mind a bit frazzeled.
“Years ago we took up swords and fought villainy, we protected the meek and when the day was done, we drank our mead and saw that what we had done was good, that it was ideal!” Trigor shouted.
“Trigor, don’t make this into a bigger deal than it really is. When you were summoned by Odin, we all realized that the world didn’t need us anymore. Sure, there was a time when we were needed to fight injustice, but the world’s a big place now. Slaying a beast here and there doesn’t do any good. We’d need an entire army to make a difference, and even then we wouldn’t be taken seriously. I mean, come on. Look at you. Your huge mess of hair, that tiny Viking helmet, that light blue polo shirt. You look ghastly. I’m a respected member of the world, I comb my hair and I put my suit on every morning and drive to work. I don’t teleport anymore. I sit at my desk and I write up my reports. And in the afternoon, I tape my show and then go home. I greet my wife, have a bit of dinner, tend to the kids and then go to sleep. And that’s just fine. That’s what people want nowadays. They don’t want us rampaging through the streets, unleashing our powers unto the world and fighting for some ideal.” Thorn lectured.
“Doesn’t you heart cry out for the old days? Doesn’t you soul sing a song of battle, even when you’re intermixed with all these cattle? Years ago we were given our powers by Odin because we were the apex of mankind, the most noble and valiant. And gaze upon yourself with an honest eye. You’re wasting it. You could be out there saving the world.” Trigor countered.
“The world doesn’t need saving anymore. You wouldn’t have been watching the TV if it did. You would have been doing something about it.”
“It was a slow week, that’s all...”
“It’s been a slow several centuries Trigor. I do my part, I tell people about the world’s problems. I don’t pretend that I can solve them. I just tell other people hoping that they can do something about it.”
“And if they don’t?”
“Then they don’t. I’m just reporting the facts.”
“In the old days, when a baby cried you would be at its side, bottle in one hand and clean sheet in the other. When a beggar tripped you jumped over and helped him up, you took his hand and guided him upwards. Now look at you. You’re tossing problems into the laps of the many, while you yourself hold within you the mighty powers of the Vikings.”
“Oh stop talking about the old days Trigor. If you had been around, maybe you’d have understood. But you weren’t, Odin took you up into Asgard and you, like the little prodigal son that you were, never questioned him. And now you come back, 600 years later, and expect us all to be in battle armor, swords at the ready. Who’s there to fight? The robbers? The murders? There’s police for them. There are judges who fight injustice now, with a gavel in the place of a battleaxe. You and I, we’re obsolete. The sooner you accept this...”
“I accept no lie from no liar, no matter how many a battle we hath won together. I was sent back here by Odin, prodigal son or not he saw I was needed. And I came here looking for a hand, the hand of a warrior who once knew his place and held in his heart the ideals of Asgard. Instead I’ve stepped in the wet disgusting mess of a coward.”
With the stomp of his foot, Trigor was gone, leaving Thorn alone in his office. His secretary came in, asking if the weirdo was gone, and whether or not he had left his number. Thorn just went back to his giant chair and waved her away. He would be accepting no more visitors that day, no calls would cruise through his lines. He looked at his pile of papers, the words written upon them now foreign tomes unfamiliar to his mind. There was nothing to do, there would he a guest host tonight, and Thorn would take a sick day. The cabinet in the far corner of the room hummed with a seductive melody, enticing Thorn towards it, beckoning he bring himself closer. The ex-Viking hero succumbed and opened it up, breaking a few spider homes in the process, tearing the white bonds apart violently, but without malice. In the cabinet sat a huge broadsword, scratched and worn from many a battle, but still sharp as the day it had been born. A golden helm, encrusted with the finest of decorations hung from the back, and below it hung a wooden shield and battle armor. The armor and helm were dull, their sheen lacked its previous luster, when they engaged in pitched combat against man and beast alike. Thorn Brickloson looked at all of this longingly, and turned his head around, making sure no one else was watching his actions. He stood there for a solid stretch of time, gazing at mementoes of an era swept away by time. And with a heavy heart, he closed the cabinet door once more.
Trigor and the Newsman
It had been a slow week for Trigor. There were no World-Dragons attacking the city, engulfing the citizens with blazing hellfire. There were no super geniuses driven mad by their menial existence and forced to build a force of World-Dominating robots. There weren’t even any real robberies or anything perpetrated by the most petty of thieves. Word had apparently gotten out that a giant, muscled Viking King had taken residence in the city, and that it was his sole mission to defeat evil, or whatever he felt like pummeling that day. As such, criminals and rouges alike were quivering with fear. They had heard tales of what he did to The Sampler, how he deftly handled an onslaught of Space Bears without a single drop of sweat beading down from his brow. How with his hands he could channel the very lightning of Thor, and how his golden mane required no comb, no conditioner, that it was naturally a testament to perfection. For a little while various villains challenged Trigor, thinking that the tales were simply the conjuring or bored felons. But when the Viking King’s fists collided with their chins, and their bodies flew directly into the prison, police station, or various onlookers, the reality of the demigod hit home. Trigor had achieved his goal, he had defeated a great deal of villainy and made safe the streets of his fair city. But now he was bored. And as any bored super powered Norse warrior would do, he started to watch TV.
At first he cautiously caroused the stations, pressing the buttons on the remote with great care, not wanting to startle the televison demons he knew to be residing in his TV set. Basic cable sedated his hunger for entertainment for a while. The talk shows about 100 pound 3 year-olds amused him in particular. Watching them struggle to toddle about, their rolls or flesh jiggling with the slightest movement, such programming brought much laughter to the halls of Trigor’s abode. But they soon grew dull. They moved on to other subjects eventually, men dressed as women with fish taped to their genitals and whatnot. It was from these newfound doldrums that Trigor stumbled upon channel 34. He knew not what he was watching at first, his eyes had trouble deciphering the image before them. Soon he called to his aid Bernardo.
“Bernardo! What hath encroached upon my box now?” he cried to his flightless friend.
“News Trigor. This is a news channel quite obviously.”
“Oh. But what does this man have to do with information? His hair is finely kept, indeed rivaling my own. Though subdued, he seems to radiate the very might that one might find in a Viking such as myself. He seems familiar...”
“That’s Thorn Bricklonson. Reporter, host, the player of many a role.”
“Indeed he has played many a role! For if my eagle eyes do not betray me, if they preform not treason, but tell truths, this Thorn Bricklonson is MY Thorn Bricklonson! An ancient acquaintance of mine from eras long past. We shared many a mead glass in the golden halls of Odin, fought many a battle in fields of green, and conquered many a mead-maiden.”Trigor excitedly recited.
“I’m not quite sure if that’s the same guy.”Bernardo stated, trying to subdue the Viking.
“Nonsense. These eyes of mine to me tell no lies. I shall return prior to the evening feast.”
Trigor teleported in his typical fashion, with the stomping of his mighty feet with the power of 12 oxen and a dozen more kangaroos. At the channel 34 news studio, a homely secretary went about her business, organizing stacks of insignificant papers so to place consumables upon her tables. She adjusted her glasses a bit, and spun her chair over the computer. She prepped her fingers, long trained in the arts of pushing keys, but before they could preform their sacred duties, a beam of light filled the room, and a handsome man of flowing hair, manly moustache, polo shirt, and rock-hard abs appeared before her.
“Woman!” he shouted, taking a step forward and pushing his chest forward, “I see audience with Thorn Bricklonson!”
“Do you have an appointment?” she calmly asked, adjusting her hair a bit now, hoping she didn’t have any poppy seeds or other unsightly specs in her teeth.
“Trigor makes appointments with no man, and indeed never a friend as near as Thorn.”
“Well I’m sorry sir, you’ll just have to wait.”
“I wait for no man...”
“I know, but just sit right there and I’ll be right with you.” the woman interrupted, unintimidated by his displays of machismo.
The Viking King dropped his head and plopped down on the nearby chair. Reaching over to the rack of magazines, he began to leaf through a worn copy of Sports Illustrated. The secretary, thinking him to be placated, picked up the phone and called Mr. Bricklonson.
“There’s someone here to see you. He says he’s an old friend or something, long hair, big moustache...” she began.
“This magazine is long past its appropriate reading time!”Trigor bellowed suddenly.
“Excuse me...” the secretary told her boss, “What did you say?” she asked Trigor.
“This magazine tells me stories of Michael Jordan’s exploits, when its well known that he has done nothing worthy of the written word in years! I can’t be distracted with such decrepit printings!”
“They’ll just have to do for now.”
“Trigor: King of Vikings lets no magazine from 1993 do for now!”
“Alright, if you could just...” the secretary struggled.
“Did he say Trigor: King of Vikings?” the voice on the other end of the line proclaimed, “Then by all means send him in!”
“Fine. You deal with him.” his secretary told him, and she pointed to the door.
“I can venture forward now?” Trigor innocently asked.
“Yes. Just leave.”
The Viking King stood up, threw the magazine behind his back, and bounded towards the giant double doors.
“I send a most gracious of thank yous in your direction paper-maiden. If you were not some homely, I would surely offer you a flagon of mead. And perhaps if the seed of the poppy were not imbedded within your teeth.”
Trigor then opened the doors with his Viking might, and immediately his right hand was taken in a grip much akin to that of a full-grown she-bear protecting its cubs. Bones cracked and skin bruised as Trigor squeezed back, and shook his hand up and down vigorously. Looking up, he saw his old friend, whose hand being crushed seemed to not put a damper on his joy in the least.
“Trigor!” Thorn beamed, separating himself from the earth-shattering handshake, “It has been a long time! How have you been?”
“I have been as the moon and the stars old friend, ever constant and still breathing.” Trigor replied.
“You haven’t aged a bit. Of course, neither have I. Comes with the whole job of being a Norse demigod, wouldn’t you say? Hey, can I get you a drink?”
“My tongue does thirst for mead.”
“Oh I remember that stuff. A strong drink it was, that mead. Do you remember that time that Brunglebor drank three barrels of mead, and then jumped into the Baltic Sea?”
“Ah, yes. He was found three months later off the shores of Greenland, his body had a tinge of blue from the cold, but his mind was as sound as ever.”
“Indeed. Anyway, I don’t have any mead though. Bad for the heart. I do have some Aquafina though.”
“That’s fine. I was just being a most polite of guests when I said I was thirsty...” mumbled Trigor, a wave of disappointment crashing against his face.
“So after all these years Trigor, what has it been, 600? What brings you here?” Thorn asked.
“I was enraptured by that televison box, and I saw you on it. Presenting some type of, what do you call it? News?”
“Yep, that’s what I do. I’m actually the lead anchor of this network. Of course, don’t tell anyone else that. Just between you and I. But yeah, you probably caught the 12:30 airing of my show, This, That and Those with Thorn Brickolson.”
“So you’re a keeper of information? Like ‘ol Svensylven, keeping all of the records from hordes of beasts and marauders?”
“Actually, I just read the news and look pretty.”
“But when you’re not on the televison box, you’re still out in the battlefields right?”
“Trigor, it’s been a long time. There aren’t any battlefields anymore. When Odin summoned you back up to Asgard, it was because times had begun to change.”
“I’ve been sent back though...”
“And that’s fantastic. But let’s face it, our days of pillaging and mead are over. Not to say they weren’t a blast and all, but the rest of us have adapted with the times.”
“And what of the old gang? Of Hrogogar? And Umblebum? Hath they become anchors too?”
“Naw. Hrogogar’s an accountant upstate, and Umblebum owns a lawn-care service. We’re not Viking Warriors, we’re simple contributors to society. Some are more simple than others, but it’s all fine and dandy.”
Trigor backed up and waved his finger, his mouth chomping upon itself trying to find words, his mind a bit frazzeled.
“Years ago we took up swords and fought villainy, we protected the meek and when the day was done, we drank our mead and saw that what we had done was good, that it was ideal!” Trigor shouted.
“Trigor, don’t make this into a bigger deal than it really is. When you were summoned by Odin, we all realized that the world didn’t need us anymore. Sure, there was a time when we were needed to fight injustice, but the world’s a big place now. Slaying a beast here and there doesn’t do any good. We’d need an entire army to make a difference, and even then we wouldn’t be taken seriously. I mean, come on. Look at you. Your huge mess of hair, that tiny Viking helmet, that light blue polo shirt. You look ghastly. I’m a respected member of the world, I comb my hair and I put my suit on every morning and drive to work. I don’t teleport anymore. I sit at my desk and I write up my reports. And in the afternoon, I tape my show and then go home. I greet my wife, have a bit of dinner, tend to the kids and then go to sleep. And that’s just fine. That’s what people want nowadays. They don’t want us rampaging through the streets, unleashing our powers unto the world and fighting for some ideal.” Thorn lectured.
“Doesn’t you heart cry out for the old days? Doesn’t you soul sing a song of battle, even when you’re intermixed with all these cattle? Years ago we were given our powers by Odin because we were the apex of mankind, the most noble and valiant. And gaze upon yourself with an honest eye. You’re wasting it. You could be out there saving the world.” Trigor countered.
“The world doesn’t need saving anymore. You wouldn’t have been watching the TV if it did. You would have been doing something about it.”
“It was a slow week, that’s all...”
“It’s been a slow several centuries Trigor. I do my part, I tell people about the world’s problems. I don’t pretend that I can solve them. I just tell other people hoping that they can do something about it.”
“And if they don’t?”
“Then they don’t. I’m just reporting the facts.”
“In the old days, when a baby cried you would be at its side, bottle in one hand and clean sheet in the other. When a beggar tripped you jumped over and helped him up, you took his hand and guided him upwards. Now look at you. You’re tossing problems into the laps of the many, while you yourself hold within you the mighty powers of the Vikings.”
“Oh stop talking about the old days Trigor. If you had been around, maybe you’d have understood. But you weren’t, Odin took you up into Asgard and you, like the little prodigal son that you were, never questioned him. And now you come back, 600 years later, and expect us all to be in battle armor, swords at the ready. Who’s there to fight? The robbers? The murders? There’s police for them. There are judges who fight injustice now, with a gavel in the place of a battleaxe. You and I, we’re obsolete. The sooner you accept this...”
“I accept no lie from no liar, no matter how many a battle we hath won together. I was sent back here by Odin, prodigal son or not he saw I was needed. And I came here looking for a hand, the hand of a warrior who once knew his place and held in his heart the ideals of Asgard. Instead I’ve stepped in the wet disgusting mess of a coward.”
With the stomp of his foot, Trigor was gone, leaving Thorn alone in his office. His secretary came in, asking if the weirdo was gone, and whether or not he had left his number. Thorn just went back to his giant chair and waved her away. He would be accepting no more visitors that day, no calls would cruise through his lines. He looked at his pile of papers, the words written upon them now foreign tomes unfamiliar to his mind. There was nothing to do, there would he a guest host tonight, and Thorn would take a sick day. The cabinet in the far corner of the room hummed with a seductive melody, enticing Thorn towards it, beckoning he bring himself closer. The ex-Viking hero succumbed and opened it up, breaking a few spider homes in the process, tearing the white bonds apart violently, but without malice. In the cabinet sat a huge broadsword, scratched and worn from many a battle, but still sharp as the day it had been born. A golden helm, encrusted with the finest of decorations hung from the back, and below it hung a wooden shield and battle armor. The armor and helm were dull, their sheen lacked its previous luster, when they engaged in pitched combat against man and beast alike. Thorn Brickloson looked at all of this longingly, and turned his head around, making sure no one else was watching his actions. He stood there for a solid stretch of time, gazing at mementoes of an era swept away by time. And with a heavy heart, he closed the cabinet door once more.