Night of the Vikings

by Special Agent Zebra

Mad Myron of Arizona, owner of the notorious Billet Bar in Scottsdale. At least that’s what he calls it. It’s really a front for his Thai hooker ring, which he operates out of the western United States. He ships in the Asian pay pussy under the Jolly Roger flag on pirate ships that land in Encinata Harbor in the Baja, Mexico and after the tarts have pulled their load, as they say in the draft horse business, he chops them into pieces with a dull garden hoe and sells their frazzled and drug hardened organs on the open market in Cambodia. There the organs are ground into fine powders and mixed with superstition and various bat urines and traded for tigers nuts in the Hong Kong underground as sexual elixirs. And man do they work. But that’s another story.

King Dale of the North, 500 pounds of unfriendly muscle and bone.

King Dale of The North is half buffalo on his father’s side and retained the horn gene. A pair of gruesome ebony horns spiral out of his blonde head, forming a heavy battering ram, which he has used against his enemies in bar fights around the world. His mother, a Nordic lass said to have been nearly eight feet in height fell in love with his father, a North American Bison, after encountering the massive beast on a religious trek into the Icelandic regions of Canada. They fell in love and King Dale was born in a blizzard which lasted 11 days and reached temperature lows of 100 below zero. It is said a local sheriff once roped King Dale of the North off a horse in an effort to tear him away from a local whorehouse which he was terrorizing.  King Dale allegedly beat the sheriff to death with the horse and burned the whorehouse to the ground, killing all inside, including the mayor.

The New Zealand Reaper, a behemoth so lethal, so violent, so aggressive that he would often fight himself in open territory, unable to find a suitable opponent among the mortal masses. It is said these brawls would sometimes last for days, as he loosed his left side to do battle with his right, either half being far the superior to both sides of a normal man. Then he would fight himself nonstop, day and night, until at last, the local town people, in fear for the structural integrity of their humble abodes which were crumbling under the jolts and shock waves the epic engagements sent through the earth, would light the great prairies and forests on fire and drive the Reaper from their region with thousands of acres of burning timber and swamp grass. The New Zealand Reaper had been thus driven all the way from his native lands to America, where, at last, he engaged himself in the great western desert, a region with nothing to burn and there he fought for nearly 100 years, digging a pit some 10,000 square miles in size during his row, crushing all life forms under his flying mass. This barren hell hole is now aptly titled Death Valley.

It was to be a night of Vikings, or "Weekings" as the Nordic ancients used to call world’s most legendary warriors. And now their great great grandsons had amassed to feast, to celebrate the unconquered boatmen of old, Bandit, Mad Myron, and King Dale of the North Country, the New Zealand Reaper.

The waitress, a salty dog of a woman, many times deflowered, curt, unwashed, slightly foul, reeking of misery and lubricating molasses demanded to know what strong drink the Vikings wanted.  "We have lambskins of wine and whiskey and pig skulls of beer!" she said defiantly. "Of which will thou partake, white raiders upon whom giant horses ride?"

"Bring us whiskey!" Bandit ordered, grabbing her by the ass and pressing his mouth to hers.  The waitress screamed and struggled, desperately trying to get away. "Ahhhhhhhhhhhhh!" Bandit roared after freeing the strumpet. "She tastes of the loin!"

The Vikings thundered their approval and hammered the table with fists weighing 50 pounds each, the oaken planks shuddering under the blows. "A truly good woman than she is!" Mad Myron of Arizona commented, slamming his eating knife into the wood.

"But of which loin doth she taste?" snarled King Dale of the North Country, leaning in closer, the thick bench creaking under his shifting weight. "For there art in this fair world not one, but two types of loin to be had!"

"Deed! King Dale of the North Country speaks the truth!" the New Zealand Reaper agreed, tearing his cow coat open and scratching his woolly chest loudly with a meat skewer.

Bandit snatched the waitress up by the waist, holding her in one hand, he again crushed his thick mustache into her shrieking face.

"She tastes of the loin of the lady!" Bandit smiled, licking his beard with a scared tongue.

"Then perhaps this fair maiden should bring us to eat her secret lover," I proposed, slicing a huge sliver of muscle off of King Dale of the North Country’s shoulder with a handmade knife. "And for an appetizer, we shall have this fillet of our brother, King Dale of the North Country!"

I slapped the long shard of meat down on the table. My Viking brothers barked and bellowed with appreciation.

"Bring us then salt!" Mad Myron commanded of our waitress. "For all who know the stout taste of buffalo know that it is bested with salt!"

Our waitress scooped a huge shovel full of salt onto our table from a wheelbarrow manned by a dwarf clad in tattered rat hides.

We spread the salt in a thick layer across the fresh meat from King Dale of the North Country1s shoulder.

"A blessing!" King Dale of the North Country offered.

"An ear!" Bandit seconded.

"May we be victorious in our battles, may we slay our enemies with

furious wrath and terrifying vengeance! May we fight with bravery and great ferocity! And when our days have come to an end and our time is nigh, may we die with the honor and dignity of the warrior!" King Dale of the North Country roared, slamming his hunting axe into his own flesh which lie prone on the table, cleaving it twain.

"A more noble blessing before has never been uttered!" The New

Zealand Reaper proclaimed with the throat of the great winds.

"A fine, stinging taste of buffalo this is, too!" I shouted,

grabbing an end and tearing off a chunk with my teeth. "A finer musk, a more rancid taste has never in my gut found a home!"

"Like the hymen of the stolen woman," Bandit said, shearing off a

large piece with his sword and eating the flesh and the tip of his sword with it.

"And more desirable than the dank ass of the fetid island whores,"

Mad Myron of Arizona concurred.

King Dale of the North Country’s meat was eaten quickly, until there was nothing left on the oak table but a wet, bloody stain where I had first

slapped the chunk of shoulder meat down.

"Whiskey!" our waitress announced, as she heaved a lambskin of the

vaporous spirit onto the table with a deep thud. "Twice aged beyond that of the innocent, mellowed in the bones of black mules, filtered through the hair of French virgins."

Mad Myron of Arizona reached out and clutched the waitress by her

own hair and dragged her the length of the ten-foot oak table to himself.

"And what of he who wants not whiskey alone, but also desires the

milk of the teat?" Mad Myron growled, his face bloodshot with lust.

"He must know but upon which flower to feed," the enchanted vixen

responded, loosing her massive tits with the ripping of her soiled gunny blouse.

Mad Myron of Arizona beheld the enormous breasts, which hung in his

face, nipples the size of startled elephant eyes, twice the height of the African anthill and the color of a successful lie.

"Look how he flows at the mouth, a river of adoration sent forth!" I

chortled, pointing with my dagger at the great stalactites of drool which hung from the busted and chipped teeth of Mad Myron of Arizona.

"Deed, best we to the ship and man the oars, lest we find ourselves

out to sea without our boat!" cried out Bandit, roaring with vast jocularity.

The Vikings shook the Inn with laughter as Mad Myron of Arizona

flung spit and salvia upon the thick fur coats of all present, sucking with power and determination at the swooning waitress’s flushed teats.

"But enough of this folly!" I roared. "Under what silver lid doth our main course hide?" I demanded, handling the waitress by her ass and dragging her from the sincere lips of Mad Myron of Arizona. "We ordered your lover and your lover we now crave!"

I waved a battle-axe high over my head, spinning it on its leather thong in increasingly more broad revolutions before releasing it and sending it into the ceiling high above the table to stand inverted.

Scurrying through the dwarves and other diners, the waitress shot

through the doors of the kitchen, where the squeals of death could be heard from slain pigs and chickens, cattle and the demented.

"King Dale of the North Country, your blood is rich and red, like

the heart of the Viking!" The New Zealand Reaper commented as he held his cup under the gushing wound left from the removal of shoulder muscle. "And a great valley the Zebra has left you with in the removal of our appetizer."

"Not to worry," Bandit said. "For King Dale of the North Country has a great mass and this small morsel on which we just dined shall his whole diminish naught."

And it was true, despite the removal of over 90 pounds of shoulder

meat from King Dale of the North Country, still he did to the sun give shade.

"HAR! Our waitress lingerith too long and my stomach does make the

song of the bear!" I sang, growing impatient. "If I must retrieve my axe, it shall be to do her a dire misdeed."

At this the doors to the kitchen parted and a heavy wooden wagon was

Rolled forth. Much steam and scent roiled up from this cart, which was drawn by two mules, painted gold with berry juice and topped with a singing canary each.

Our waitress led the mules to our table, thereby drawing the burning

cart near.

"What1s this?" Bandit demanded, sniffing at the steam with great

interest.

"The water smoke, she smells of tartar and morality!"

"Nay, of fecund dirt and the feet of the King1s messenger!" Mad

Myron from Arizona decried.

"My nose speaks of memories of a burning whorehouse and a sheriff no

more!"

King Dale of the North Country concluded.

"I do scent the ass of the wild boar or perhaps the dank hair of the

Clydesdale uterus!" I trumpeted.

"But all are mistaken, ‘tis none of these olfactory delights, but the

burp of the whale, engorged on kelp and deep freedom!" argued The New Zealand Reaper.

"Of all your large noses, none speaks the truth," chided the bare

breasted waitress. "I shall thee give but one clue," she said, leaping up on the table and ripping from herself her gown, leaving her vase uncovered. "Ask of myself what scent do ye reap and then under the silver dish ye shall know what ye eat!"

With great confidence and lascivious gait, she proceeded to position

her glory before each Viking1s snout for the time it takes a tortoise to sneeze. Each man had a royal scenting and a bit of a taste was also, it seems, enjoyed by the lot. When she arrived at The New Zealand Reaper, he grasped in each hand a side of buttock and made a thorough and detailed inspection of her gift. So much so that the waitress at the knee buckled and cooed, apparently enamored with the attention and enthusiasm shown by our unparalleled brother.

Then our naked lady, her wooden shoes clapping the dirt floor when

she lit, dropped herself from the oak and to the earth.

"Now, do ye better know the dish?" the waitress asked, kneading her

breasts in boiling anticipation.

"If it be half as fair as ye, then I shall eat fully," Mad Myron

from Arizona declared. "I should predict the raising of the silver dome will reveal pig!"

"My whiskers are glad to be alive tonight as well," Bandit announced. "And if the smell and taste of this fair lady’s southern lands be our guide, I guess on the ass of mutton shall we this eve dine!"

"Hold on, good brothers, for this is not the only source of this

intoxicant," King Dale of the North Country cautioned. "For once, when I fought myself through the great land they call Europe, I paths crossed with several women, with hair as black as the soul of a coward and eyes like those of the forgotten night. These women themselves called Arabs and they did in their joining of the legs this taste leave me with as well. Our clever waitress wishes to repay us for our jostlings and humor. On the brains of the

demented we dine tonight."

"Wrong, my sizeable and delicious brother, wrong," The New Zealand

Reaper said. "I did spend considerable time and trouble deciphering the crucial intersection of this maiden and I can tell you with great sureness, tonight our tongues beat fish."

"There is but one way to be sure what lingers under the brilliant

cover of the coin on this dinner cart," I said, standing from the table and removing my lower bullskin.

I scooped up the naked waitress, her smug smile too and bent her

over the table roughly, giving her a fine penetrating and a merry prodding in both her upper and her lower eye.

"I shall investigate this insatiable strumpet properly!" I said,

grunting and farting as I sent forth the Herculean battering ram into her defending guts repeatedly.

The waitress shrieked and clawed at the bark on the table with her

fingernails, first objecting, then giving what could be described using some artistic license as direction.

"I am hungry!" Bandit objected, leaning his gigantic skull on one

elbow. "And I yearn to know what lies beneath the steel!"

"I too feel the horses stampeding in my gullet," agreed Mad Myron of

Arizona, "and still I say, tonight we eat swine."

"Try not to take too long in your pilgrimage for truth," King Dale

of the North Country pleaded. "For my hunger is that of Bandits plus a thousand men and I think that soon might be required to on our servants break my spell."

Immediately the dwarves fled the area, fearful they might be plucked

up and treated as a snack by the ravenous giant.

"Fear not my fine brothers, I shall make of this harlot a short

work," I said, sweating and pumping her robust ass over the table. "Perhaps if the good brother Bandit could move his shield and axe, allowing me to further trap this wiggly lass, I could then more quickly give to thee the answer to the dinner riddle."

Bandit swept his sword and shield off the table with a horrendous

crash, rolling his eyes in protest.

"We shall never eat until the sun has risen and fallen to the moon

in at least three desperate battles," Bandit said forlornly. "I have seen Zebra make such a quest for wisdom before and never is there fewer than four moons and as many suns before wisdom is reached."

The waitress crowed noon, though it was well near midnight, as I

switched holes and began sounding for depth.

"Four moons and four suns, the carcass of a rock fed peasant upon

which I should rather dine than to age mineself through such a period between meals!" Mad Myron of Arizona said, eyeing the charging tits of the waitress hungrily as I continued to make my sweaty quest for enlightenment.

"Could we not just have a peek under the silver dome?" asked King

Dale of the North Country? "For my flesh has long since left both my shoulder and my stomach and I yearn to have that which we will of tonight partake. I have ridden a lengthy distance on my great motorcycle and I cannot wait for another fortnight to eat."

"It shall be but a moment more," I said, as I dropped from the high

pigeon’s nest to the lower again, gaining in momentum and wisdom with each stroke. "I sense an epiphany approaching," I added as the waitress spoke in the tongue of the moon sick wolf.

"Always it is the same," complained The New Zealand Reaper. "Always it is Zebra who sets out upon the path of enlightenment and always we are left behind to ponder that science upon which revelations have already been showered. My belly protests." The New Zealand Reaper parked his massive jaw on two upturned paws and sighed loudly his great acreage of brow plowing itself into high terraces of displeasure.

"AAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHH!" I roared as the waitress’s ass bloomed and gave to me the key to the question. "I can tell you patient brothers what lingers under the chromed hood that is our dinner," I said, withdrawing from the spent waitress, who continued to lie on the table gasping for air and speaking in tongues. "This fair waitress has, to my delight, brought us our first and somewhat mirthful request."

The Viking’s eyes widened.

"No," Bandit said disbelieving.

"My fine brother Bandit, haven’t I just traveled the road to

wisdom?" I said, re-applying my bullskin.

Bandit nodded in anticipation.

"Then why does thou doubt my knowledge of such things?" I asked.

"You there! Tiny man!" I roared at a nearby dwarf. "Our waitress is spent! Make of thineself a useful tool and unmask our dinner, that my brothers might see their patience has been well repaid. For as they shall soon see, our waitress, generous whore that she is, has delivered unto us the very charlatan upon which she nightly dines for our supper!"

The dwarf struggled to lift the enormous silver cover from under

which wheezed great jets of steam and estrogen.

"I can stand no more!" Bandit thundered, standing his full height

and manning his broadsword. He swung with the might of a thousand warriors and the ringing of his sword off of the sterling silver cover can still be heard today in the valley of Palos Verdes.

The lid flew across the Inn and smashed into the far wall, killing

many. The Vikings gasped.

"‘Tis true!" exclaimed Mad Myron of Arizona.

"Indeed!" called The New Zealand Reaper.

"Tonight we feast!" bellowed King Dale of the North Country,

knocking the chimney from atop the Inn with his great voice.

"Ahhhhhhhh," cried Bandit as he jammed his sword into the earth near

his feet. "No greater meat is there to be had by man or Viking alike than that of the fair lady who has been raised on the meat of another fair lady."

And as the smoke and steam cleared, there before us sat a perfect

virgin, her hands bound behind her back with long bullwhips. Her legs tied to either handle on the broad plate, which was her seat. A ripe apple in either end of her fortunous body.

"And a sense of humor too!" cried Mad Myron of Arizona. "Look at

how our waitress has adorned her offering with the fruit of the apple tree!"

"And not one fruit, but two!" laughed Bandit.

"Perhaps now the question is, who shall eat fruit and who meat?"

asked a suddenly jocular New Zealand Reaper.

"Another question to be answered?" I asked rising, giving the sweaty

waitress a sharp swat on her rubbery ass. "Shall I journey down the road to

enlightenment?"

"No!" cried Bandit. "I am hungry!"

"Fie and fiddlesticks!" thundered King Dale of the North Country.

"Enough of your cursed wisdom! Now is the time for Vikings to eat!"

"Another journey shall see me weak!" snarled Mad Myron of Arizona.

"Another journey shall see me in a fight!" threatened The New

Zealand Reaper.

"But a ruse, dear brothers," I said, re-applying the bullskin. "But

a ruse. I should not think of depriving you a moment longer from suffering this unfrocked wench."

"But is there enough?" worried King Dale of the North Country. "For

our numbers are few, but our feats in all things legendary."

"Rest assured," came the sultry reply from our freshly fertilized

waitress. "You shall ride your great horses satisfied tonight. For the bindings on the legs, which, in separating, present to you the bottom apple and the heavy leather bullwhips which you see as restraints against resistance on the wrists, coupled with the highest apple, already half eaten, are instead to afford you wee lads a fighting chance against what is perhaps the most ravenous woman in all of land or sea, time or reason. This hearty wench which you identified as so many different beasts, is the Venus, goddess of beauty and queen of sexuality. Fret no more that you will be unfulfilled, dear Vikings. But instead give heed to keep your shields handy and that which your bullskin hides, ready to defend."

The Vikings gave a hearty shout of enthusiasm.

"Loose the leggings!" commanded Bandit.

Four dwarves in full battle armor ran forward and sliced through the

Heavy ropes which held apart our dinner’s ankles. Immediately the lower apple and one dwarf vanished into the cave of the woolen beast.

"Hark!" cried Mad Myron from Arizona. "Such power!"

"And now the wrists!" Bandit ordered.

A dwarf, tied by a rope to a team of other strong dwarves intent on

Retrieving him at the first sign of danger, slashed the bullwhips with a golden fighting axe.

Instantly the upper apple exploded as the nubile waif bit entirely

through it. Suddenly our dinner was upon us, a ravaging naked beast, hymen made of a material more durable than the skin of the moose, estrogen splashing from her ass in great buckets.

"See how she strives to devour the devourers!" wailed Bandit as he

fought shield and broadsword against the ravenous slut.

"Methinks we might soon be ourselves a feast!" trumpeted The New

Zealand Reaper as he fended off the slut with his staff and club.

Tarnished peals of bad laughter coming from the unsealed waitress

rang off the walls of the Inn.

"You did order our strongest drink," our waitress howled, shrieking

with delight. "And our strongest is she! Knaves! To think that I would offer myself unto this hungry wench! Ha! I would be gobbled fast, as you shall be! The lass with which I scent myself is not one-third this monster! Were she, with sincerity I can say, I would not your waitress be before you on this day! Vikings! Tonight, after so many centuries of unspotted reign, you shall meet your match!"

"Prepare to make a brother of death!" thundered Bandit as he flung

aside his bullskin and ran the slut through with his unveiled warrior.

But it was a cry of delight, not death which shot from the slut and

Instantly she was on top of Bandit, a female fury greater than that of the funneling winds which rip the Midwest in the springtime and into their great twisting holes suck entire barns full of chickens, horses and cowering men.

"See how she mocks Bandit’s efforts to reduce her!" bemoaned King

Dale of the North Country as he cowered behind his shield, a sheet of painted pot iron nine dwarves high and twice as wide.

"Fear not noble brothers, I have relied upon my own mast many times

in such situations and never has it failed me!" said Mad Myron of Arizona.

With that he flung his bullskin aside and charged the attacking

wench his lungs filled with a savage battle cry.

"She seems not to notice the rear assault which Mad Myron of Arizona

so nobly launches on her!" cried The New Zealand Reaper in disbelief.

"And hear how Bandit shrieks in pain and agony, calling for death to

rescue him from his superior foe!" I said in terror.

"Retreat!" cried King Dale of the North Country.

"To the steeds!" I yelled, charging the back door.

We ran for our lives and leapt upon our great motorcycles, charging

off into the night. Later as we sat and pondered on the hilltop near the Bikernet castle, all agreed that it had been a battle filled with valor and courage.

"Proud we should stand," Bandit said, rubbing burning lineament

under his bullskin to reduce the pain of his war wounds. "For well we fought and never braver."

"Never have I seen an entrance so fortified, so impenetrable," added

Mad Myron of Arizona as he borrowed a gob of burning lineament from the pouch hanging on Bandit’s motorcycle and rubbed it under his bullskin.

"A more mighty foe I have never seen," said The New Zealand Reaper,

sewing up what was left of his tattered bullskin with thread and needle. "Our enemy brought with her stamina, ferocity and an appetite for doom and displeasure larger than the great waters of the north."

"The tales, so often they grow beyond truth," said Mad Myron of

Arizona. "But this epic foe, regardless of how incredible the story becomes over the centuries of morrow, shall always live up to the fable. A true woman indeed."

"A greater piece of ass I have never seen!" I heralded.

"Here, here!" cried the Vikings.

And the valleys did shake and the mountains were broken from their

moorings by their cry.

Special Agent Zebra

On the road with the Vikings