The social system in Giant Land is being flooded with mutant children. The sons of Odin delight in slaughtering giant males but have no compunctions about impregnating giant women. But of course they are nowhere to be found once the crossbred monster is born. Thor of course is the biggest culprit. Mimir suggests he put a sock on pickle before his next ride on a tuba tanker. I mean, should the gods really be above contraception?
What is it about battle that so excites the spirit? The anticipation one feels before the onslaught when one’s senses are at their finest? Or the beautiful chorus of swords clashing and enemies pleading for mercy? Or perhaps it’s the brilliant colors of the battlefield as the blood of the vanquished seeps into the grass and volcanic rock…
Then again, maybe it’s just the free stuff one gets after victory. Claiming someone else’s stuff as your own is hard to beat.
On a completely unrelated front, a friend of mine sent me this awesome clip of a death metal rooster today. Thanks Niles. Enjoy.
It’s pure speculation of course… but after weeks of sailing, battling, and drinking, those Viking warriors must have smelled like rotting fish on a hot summer day. After returning from a war campaign, even the most laid back Viking housewife would insist that her husband scrub the gore from beneath his nails before touching her.
The fire giants are drunk and the frost giants are fat on dwarf meat… how is the Ragnarok ever going to get started with the giants in shambles?
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