For Your Pure Enjoyment…

We had to go out in this lousy weather this morning. To make the trip less irksome, I keep my eye out for amusing signs. My favorite, “Fried Carpet,” alas, is no more. Then there’s the tiny one-room office with the sign, “World Enterprises.” Finally, there’s “Saga Wok,” which suggests a story along these lines:

There was a man named Dishonest Haakon wh0 lived on a farm near Trondheim, and had to leave suddenly because his neighbors burned down his house, thinking he was in it… (We can skip the rest. Icelandic sagas always start several generations back. So we’ll just jump 100 years ahead.)

Sven and Einar decided to open a Chinese restaurant at the foot of the glacier near Vapnafjiord, and they called it “Saga Wok.” They were a long time learning how to pronounce the word “wok” properly, and they found a real wok to be an item very difficult to obtain.

One day a man called Olaf the Strangler came in and ordered Moo Goo Gai Pan, and this led to trouble.

“You will be disappointed to learn that we have as yet nothing on the menu except for salt cod and whale blubber,” Sven told him.

“In that case, I don’t think much of this Chinese restaurant of yours,” Olaf replied. “You would be wise to give me what I ask for. They don’t call me Olaf the Strangler for nothing.”

Einar overheard this from the kitchen, and it upset him. He came out with an iron skillet in his hand and dashed out Olaf’s brains. “Now you may be called Olaf the Silent,” he said.

“I would rather you had not done that,” said Sven. At that the two friends came to blows, and made a mess of their dining room. After that they parted angrily.

A shepherd named Hrolf the Unlucky brought the news to Olaf’s wife, Thorhild Dagger, that Einar of the Saga Wok had killed her husband. “Olaf was no woman’s idea of a husband,” said Thorhild, “but I shall avenge this insult to myself. Go now to my foster-father, Kjartan Massacre, and bid him come to me with a dozen of his fiercest men: and then we shall all pay a visit to this Einar.”

Here the story must break off for the time being, as there is only so much space for a post on a blog. Any reader so inclined may feel free to continue it in the “Comments” space.

22 comments on “For Your Pure Enjoyment…

    1. I kind of thought that’s what it was. It reminded me of “Hagar the Horrible”… from the comic strip.

      Please keep us posted about your broadcast on Wildmon’s program.

  1. People spend their entire lives saving up to visit an Icelandic Asian Restaurant. I can sympathize greatly with Olaf the Strangler, once I went to McDonald’s and they were out of McFish sandwiches. I never actually implied that I would strangle anyone, but the manager gave me a coupon for a free order of fries on my next visit. I keep in in my safety deposit box, along with my signed photo of the Cardiff Giant.

    1. Bludgeoning customers to death with a skillet can be equally effective, but it has a built-in detrimental effect on repeat business. That’s the only downside I can think of. 🙂

  2. I love that first paragraph – it is a great hook. One of these days I am going to try my hand at writing fantasy. There is much unreality taking place in our time, when I comment on it, it seems I am writing fantasy already 🙂

  3. “What!” said Kjartan Massacre, as he splattered red wine from his mouth all over the silk carpet. “Dead, you say?” he continued as he put down his cup, “And he still had to pay me back the loans! I will make this Einar pay for it, murderer of Olaf the Strangler, husband of my foster daughter, Thorhild Dagger!”

    “What shall we do, your honour?” said Hrolf the Unlucky. “Shall we do as your daughter has said, or…?”

    Kjartan grinned an evil grin, and made a shrill whistle.

    From the ground came up a little man.

    “Hi! My name is Qwerty Charles-Bellybutton the Insignificant.”

    Hrolf stared at the dwarf with bushy facial hair that covered most of his face. “So… what is this all about?”

    “This dwarf, my number-one assassin, is worth at least three dozen men. He will be no match for this Einar!”

    “Good grief…”

    And so that was why Hrolf was called the Unlucky… saying the wrong things at the wrong times… Qwerty stomped on his head and he was dead.

    “Go now to my daughter,” said Massacre,”and finish the killer once and for all!”

    “Okie-dokie, sheriff!”

    “Stop calling me that, if you will. For safety’s sake I will tie this super long string to you and me while you go on your mission.”

    Qwerty stood there looking like a garden gnome.

    “GO NOW!!! Before I feed you to the Vikings!”

    And so Qwerty the Insignificant snatched his asdfghjkl, which was what we now call a pogo stick, and boing-boing-boinged to Thorhild Dagger’s house.

    “Where’s this Einar’s house, madam?” said the dwarf, spitting out the murderer’s name. “I have come to pay the butcher’s bill.”

    Thorhild stared at the insignificant-looking little assassin, who stood at one foot and eighteen inches (Originally he was one foot and twenty-five inches tall, but a Norse chieftain named Joxspiech the Spinach cut off part of his feet…). “My foster-father sent… YOU?… And where’s the shepherd?”

    “Some questions are not worthy to be asked, my lady.”

    And so ten minutes later, the assassin and Massacre’s foster-daughter were standing in front of Einar’s house, stationed near a cliff about fifteen yards away from the Saga Wok. Imagine Einar’s surprise when he saw the twosome standing there in front of his humble abode like executioners.

    Before he could speak, Thorhild Dagger said, “We have come to take revenge on you for killing my husband, Olaf the Stra…”

    She couldn’t finish the sentence, for Qwerty the Insignificant dwarf couldn’t hold his temper, and he boing-boing-boinged into Einar’s house, pushing Einar to the other end of the house, and crashed, rooting the house out from its foundations.

    The house fell off the cliff, dragging Kjartan Massacre away from his delicious meal and sending him flying into the air eighteen miles. Thorhild Dagger watched as her foster-father, tied to the rope that connected him to Qwerty, fall into the abyss.

    Fifteen days later, Thorhild Dagger and Sven got married and lived happily ever after…


    1. I must admit, it’s a pretty weird story…

      I’m pretty weak when it comes to distances…

    2. “Thorhild stared at the insignificant-looking little assassin, who stood at one foot and eighteen inches. Originally he was one foot and twenty-five inches tall, but a Norse chieftain named Joxspiech the Spinach cut off part of his feet…”

      So Mr. Spinach cut off 7 inches from the dwarf’s feet… I don’t think I’m cut out for this!

  4. Side Story:

    “Where has Master Massacre gone, I wonder,” said the maid as she helped the cook clean up the unfinished dinner on the large, costly oak table in Kjartan Massacre’s well-furnished house.

    “Well, that stupid rope took him someplace,” said the grumpy old cook. “I keep asking him what that rope is for and he only answered me with ‘hmm’s and ‘bah’s and burps. And what happens next? He goes a’flyin’ out the door without even finishing my hard work of a dinner.”

    They were just about to finish the cleaning job when all of a sudden “EEEEK!!” screamed the cook, dropping the plates she was holding.

    “Wha-what happened, ma’am?” asked the maid. “You look as if you’ve seen a ghost.”

    The cook raised a shaking hand to the direction of the dark hallway. Her face was all white. “There…there, you see?…”

    The maid looked at where she was pointing… and yelped in fear.

    There, in the hallway, stood the unlucky shepherd, Hrolf the Unlucky, chewing on a turkey leg, with a white bandage on his head…

    Fifteen days later… Hrolf the Unlucky became the Best Man for Sven and Thorhild Dagger’s wedding…


    1. Let’s just say that “Qwerty stomped on his head and he was dead” means “Qwerty knocked him out cold.” There, that makes more sense.

    1. So let’s set things right! There’s sure to be some ways to bring characters back!

  5. “Look! I see three men walking towards us!” screamed the flower girl.

    The wedding participants squinted their eyes. “This can’t be true,” said Hrolf the Unlucky, “They’re back!!!”

    And sure enough, Einar of the Saga Wok, Kjartan Massacre, and Qwerty the Insignificant came to the scene once again.

    “As you can see,” said Kjartan, “We survived the fall.” And turning to his daughter, Thorhild, and son-in-law, Sven, “I wish you both a happy marriage, and til death do you part.”

    “But how?” asked Thorhild, “How could you have possibily survived that fall?

    Qwerty the dwarf stepped up. “Now that’s goin’ to be a long story, m’lady… a story that’s going to take up a lot of space in the comment’s section…”

    The next day, Sven and Einar are back at the Saga Wok, making delicious Chinese food like the good old days when…

    The door blasted open, and a very old man stepped in. Whether you believe it or not, he was one hundred and sixty-seven years old.

    “My name is Dishonest Haakon, and I’d like a glass of peppermint wine!”

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