Anyone who knows me very could tell you about my love for Vikings. Those fuzzy mountains of men, the type who drank mead, plundered European countryside’s, and often made habitual public coitus, hold a special place in my view of manliness. I bet you they never even knew how to use a straw or what a scarf is. I can even like the Minnesota kind so long as they aren’t playing the Broncos.
Anyway, my current short story is about a pale American man whose Viking ancestry is awoken when his Mother-in-Law and her red Cadillac come to town. Will he have to slay the beast? Will he make public whoopee in front of a rent-a-cop? Who knows, only one thing is certain; she always comes in the mist.
(P.S. I know it sounds lame, give me a break, I need something to drive my word count.)